The Boy Who Fled
by Happy Fingers
Summary: Harry Potter has not been seen or heard from for several years. One day he is found, or rather, caught. One would have thought this would bring some peace to the crumbling wizarding world...it hasn't. This is project is being discontinued, sorry!
1. He's Back

Authors Note: All characters and places from the novel series Harry Potter are owned by J.K Rowling. Any which are created by myself are created, and therefore owned by me. No copycats.

Suggested Reading:The Soldiers of Eden by S.J Rafael – seriously good.

The Boy-Who-Fled

_By Happy Fingers_

**Chapter 1: He's Back**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"_There's just something…wrong…no, not wrong…I just don't like it. Honestly, what do we really know about him? Well I'll tell you what we know. **Nothing**. Not a smidgen. Where he's been, what he's been doing, **who** he's been talking to. You-Know-Who's been back for 3 years now, for all we know they could be working together! **Allies in** **darkness**!"_

_**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**_

"You move and I **swear** to almighty hell you'll regret it" Shacklebot snarled, pointing his wand just inches from the boy's face.

He was breathing heavily, and the small beads of sweat that had formed during the fight threatened to trickle down his dark skin, and fall to the dusty, littered floor. The small gash on his right temple glistened in the day's final rays of sunshine and looked particularly painful, especially in combination with the torn and tattered robes that hung of his strained body. The small group of aurors stood around the boy in a wide circle, looking as if they'd been running a marathon, each presenting their own significant battle scars, and shaking ever-so-slightly. Save for the rather strange-looking suited man, who, for starters did not seem to have a wand, secondly was wearing sunglasses at sunset and three was the only one who did not seem remotely put out by the remarkable chase that had occurred.

Harry Potter stood with his arms up above his head, the slightest hint of amusement flicking across his handsome features. His emerald-green eyes glanced around him, he was cornered. Though to be fair, he had put up a good fight. A few feet away lay two unconscious Aurors, and dangling above him was another, yelling something to the effect of "get me down", however no one could be sure for his mouth had been sealed over. Something Harry felt rightly smug about. He knew he was caught, but it didn't mean he was going to make it easy for them; he'd spent his life running from these guys. He wasn't about to just give in.

At least not **that** easily.

"Okay Harry…" the tall woman behind him cooed, her voice shaking in unison with her outstretched hand.

"We're going to take you in now; it's for your own good. **Trust us**" she nodded, as though talking to an insane person.

The Aurors surrounding him all flinched together, as if all flicked with ice cold water as Harry flicked his head to the side, his jet black hair swinging out his eyes and neatly covering the scar that each and every one of them was staring at, their eyes wide with…well…a mixture of fear, anger, shock and bizarrely enough…respect.

They did have to hand it to him, he was only sixteen, and he'd fought well. Maybe a little too well. Harry smiled as the circle of people surrounding him closed in, edging towards him bit by bit. Harry couldn't quite understand why they were so scared, they had his wand.

A mistake he vowed would never happen again.

Minerva McGonagall did not like to run; she was more of a brisk-walker. She felt running destroyed the finesse of her appearance, usually leaving her wheezing and puffing for air, with rosy red cheeks tinting her slightly worn features. That's right, Minerva wasn't one for strenuous movement of any kind, she saw no need for it.

Why run when you could apparate?

Yet here she was, running as fast as possible through the school corridors of Hogwarts. Her cloak bellowing behind her, along with any traces of dignity. However today was an extreme circumstance and Minerva felt that she would have to leave any inhibition behind. Inwardly growling at the age old magic that prevented her from apparating. She came to a flustered halt outside a dark wooden door, and rapidly knocked three times against the old, worn bark. Ignoring the frightened looking house elf that had just left the office, and sped past her.

"Enter" a soft voice sounded, if a little hoarsely.

McGonagall burst in and fluttered towards Dumbledore, who was sat at his desk, apparently examining some sort of necklace. As she opened her mouth to speak (having to suck in as much air as possible before doing so) Dumbledore raised a calm hand, looking up at her with a grave expression.

This was a moment in history, and as always, Dumbledore remained calm, retaining his level-headedness and aura of knowledge with apparent ease. The tip off had indeed seemed correct, Harry was going to make an appearance at Diagon Alley, though exactly why, was as of yet, undisclosed.

"I am aware of the situation Minerva." He said calmly, as McGonagall huffed and puffed, her thin, grey eyebrows creasing and thinning further at the sight of her ripped robes that hung loosely by her feet.

She most definitely detested running…

The fierce looking boy sat in the chair with the distinct aura of smugness surrounding him. His jet black hair lay messily atop his head and couldn't be set far apart from his slightly worn-looking dark jacket that hung loosely around his muscled physique. His stained white t-shirt didn't do anything to improve his dirty appearance and only made him look slightly more socially acceptable compared to the pitifully torn jeans he wore as trousers. The scuffed brown boots he wore tapped rhythmically against the pristinely clean, tiled floor, small speckles of dirt dislodging themselves with each thud, littering the floor around him. The three guards watched him from their posts each with varying expressions. One of them, a woman with slightly strange looking hair, was scowling at him with what the boy thought to be a permanent looking frown. He smiled at her playfully, winking as the woman's face darkened still. He knew it was irritating her, and to be quite honest, he couldn't care less.

Rufus Scrimgeour entered the small dusty room and stood with a stern expression on his face, visible only by the soft light that emanated from the small light bulb that hung from the ceiling. He was perplexed indeed. When he got the call he didn't quite believe it, for the amount of false alarms had urged him to become skeptical about ever finding him, if at all. Carefully staying hidden he observed the boy through the cover of darkness, yes, at certain moments Harry's return had seemed most unlikely.

Yet here he was.

The Minister left the room, casting a warning glare to the strange suited man that was placed at the back of the room, and the Minister left as he came.

In the cover of darkness…

**xxxxxxxx**

Dumbledore was worried, yes, most certainly worried. He was not expecting this… No, this was quite unexpected, and yet he found himself humming with excitement. He had not seen the boy in…well, since he was just a newborn child, how he must have changed.

The darkened room was filled with people, their sharp and hushed voices heightening in volume between the crackles of the open fire. Dumbledore however sat aside, his mind elsewhere, admiring Fawkes (his Pheonix) in a dazed but pleasant manner. A small layer of smoke hovered around the ceiling, increasing in size as the fire once again flashed emerald-green, with yet another arrival. Dumbledore stood calmly and greeted the short, slightly frumpy looking witch that had emerged from the fire with a polite nod, smiling as the witch adjusted her lopsided hat.

"Hmm-Hmm" she sounded, evidently trying to get as much attention as possible from the others in the room.

She made no move to greet Dumbledore, and strutted to the centre of the room, her head and shoulders held high, as if on some kind of parade. The witch was old, around 60, though you never could tell, at least not like you could with Muggles. She wore shiny black robes that matched her tall, pointy hat. Her face was sharp and chiseled, and perfectly complemented her evidently pompous attitude.

"I am here to inform you-" she shrilled, not looking at anyone in particular, "-That the Minister of Magic will be arriving shortly!"

This slightly over the top statement seemed to sprout an endless amount of happiness within the frumpy witch, her grotesque smile effectively conveying her assumption that she was (by-far) the most important person in the room, perhaps even, in the whole world.

Dumbledore who had watched the woman intently from the minute of her arrival merely smiled.

"Thank you Veretia" he softly whispered, before returning to his desk.

Veretia Tricksalonge was not a fan of Albus Dumbledore. To say the least. She had blamed him for every single wrong doing that had occurred in the world.

Ever.

A tree losing all its leaves (in the middle of winter) why of course, Albus Dumbledore was behind it. Her failing at the Auror test for the sixth time. Well, evidently Albus had **something** to do with it, in fact, every single negative event in her sorrowful little life had something to do with Dumbledore…she was sure of it.

She was an avid reader of the infamous Daily Prophet, the newspaper that took delight in reminding the Wizarding community (wherever possible) that it was Dumbledore who allowed Voldemort to obtain the Philosophers Stone, and it was Dumbledore who allowed The-Boy-Who-Lived to run away from his Muggle family, thus, removing all hope of ever destroying Voldemort and winning the war.

So it was no surprise that Veretia continued to ignore Dumbledore and wrinkle her nose at the sound of his voice, as if some foul stench was right under her pointy little nose. Swiveling on the spot, she strutted out of Dumbledore's office with the elegance of a hippopotamus, slamming the door behind her with a smash. Apparently Veretia did not want to breathe the same air as the man responsible for ruining her life.

**xxxxxxxx**

"WOULD YOU **STOP** DOING THAT?" shouted the female guard for the umpteenth time.

Harry immediately ceased tapping his boots and glared at the woman, his emerald-green eyes sparkling mischievously. Nymphadora Tonks was on edge. She had to admit that. There was something about this boy, something…dangerous.

He continued to watch her for several minutes, twiddling the large silver ring on his right hand in a circular motion. Tonks stared back, squinting repeatedly as the reflection of light from his ring flashed before her eyes as it spun. The male guard (that Harry presumed to be chronically shy, in turn meaning he was the weakest) tried desperately to stifle the tickle of a cough that erupted from his throat, and practically whimpered when Harry snapped his head toward his direction. The weakest were the easiest to unnerve, and usually provided the most reliable means of escape, something Harry was inexplicably good at…

Nymphadora shifted uneasily, as she ever-so-slightly edged backward, allowing the small comfort of darkness to envelope her. With an uneasy glance her small beady eyes flicked over to the table on the other side of the room, on which, the boy's wand sat. However as soon as she did it, she regretted it, or at least…she knew she would.

A sign of weakness.

Something she was trained never to give away.

Harry smiled once again and resumed his continual foot tapping, to which the female guard rolled her eyes. He knew he had them on edge. He enjoyed it.

The plastic looking door to the room opened with a soft click, followed by the high pitched moans of the rusty hinges. Everybody in the room looked up to see a tall woman enter. She wore white, plastic-looking robes that fitted neatly around her lean body. The high heels she was wearing propelled her to such a height that she had to duck her head slightly to get through a doorway. As she turned to close the door she nodded to the guards in the room, apparently this gesture made perfect sense to them as they all filed out the room, without so much as another glance to the boy. The door closed with another soft click, as the tall woman turned around. She was extremely fierce looking, with small beady eyes and long bony fingers. Her blonde hair was piled up above her head, and pinned with what looked like real butterflies. Her shoes created a soft pattering sound against the tiles as she walked over to the table and inspected the Harry's wand, a small smile etched across her bony features. Harry was examining his ring, apparently non-perplexed at the woman's behavior. With the flick of her wand, a small, wooden chair materialized opposite the young man, which she walked over to and sat in. Their faces were level now, and the woman could clearly make out the several marks that littered the boy's body. Scars, scratches, cuts and bruises littered the boys face, neck and arms (or what was visible of them). Though the one particular scar she was looking for was conveniently hidden amid a mass of hair.

The two stared at one another in a chilly silence, pierced occasionally by the soft buzzing of a presumably trapped insect, desperate to escape. The woman's wide, bulging eyes studied the boy intensely, as if trying to unveil something hidden, something lost. Evidently her search produced the wrong results as she abruptly sat back in her chair. She smiled politely, cocking her head from one side to other, squinting at the boy as she did so.

"So…" she drawled, crossing one bony leg over the other.

Harry watched her with one raised eyebrow, and leant forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

"Are you ready to co-operate yet?" she asked, with the slightest hint of frustration.

Harry leaned back in his chair, breathing in deeply, in apparent contemplation. He opened his mouth just slightly to speak, to which he could practically hear the woman's delight, breathed in just slightly… and then immediately shut it, with a wink. The woman's aged face contorted with numerous lines and crinkles, produced by the sharp frown that she was throwing in his direction.

Harry hadn't spoken once since his capture, and he didn't plan to. He knew they needed him, he would come to no harm, but he wasn't about to help them. The whispers of 'Just like James!' and 'Lily's eyes' erupted around the corridor with his entrance, and conveniently told him all he needed to know. He was still wanted, needed. Perhaps even talked about, though he could see no reason why. Yes, he was aware of 'the legend', he knew he had somehow stopped Voldemort, though he wasn't remotely interested in how, why or the consequences of that particular twist of fate. He had more pressing matters on his mind, and couldn't care less of what Voldemort was up to. He knew they wanted him for **something**, **needed him.** Why, he didn't know, but he was sure that would come to light in no time.

"You would do well to remember that you are in Ministry custody young man!" the woman almost screeched, obviously exasperated at the boys attitude.

She continued her examination of the boy, to which he consented, though silently. Everything was in order and where it was supposed to be, though Pimmelfry couldn't help but stare at the small black mark, concealed underneath the leather wristband he was wearing. Pimmelfry never had liked tattoos. Her last employer (before the Ministry) was littered with them. For some reason he had found the prospect of vandalizing his body something of a hobby, and as such, had covered it in numerous, god-awful, tattoos. She shuddered at the thought of the Red Dragon that covered most of his skin. Unlike Muggle tattoos (to which she was born, Muggles that is, not tattoos) this particular Dragon was not motionless. No, it moved, it had eyes and it traveled around the slightly chubby mans body, watching you wherever you went. Pimmelfry shuddered, pushing the thought out of her mind. The less she thought of that man the better, for she had a far more serious matter to attend to.

Harry Potter.

**xxxxxxxx**

Rufus Scrimgeour sat at his desk, shuffling and reshuffling his papers. His office bared a slight resemblance to a morgue, and contained that distinct sense of despair and depression, that was most definitely furthered by the obvious lack of light or air that was allowed to enter the room. The thick particles of dust that hovered about the room created a thick layer that had encased just about every piece of furniture, stationary and appliance in the room, and anything new that entered would, eventually, soon be encased. The toad-faced woman that sat across from him continued to eye him carefully, awaiting what he was about to say eagerly, while repeatedly dusting herself off.

"Oh I just don't know Dolores" he huffed, the wisps of despair that were present in his sigh all too apparent.

Dolores Umbridge was a fierce woman, much like her older sister Veretia. Although she like her sister, found Dumbledore's nonsensical attitude and sheer peculiarity to be befuddling at best, she didn't share the Ministers sense of panic whenever a situation arose that concerned him in any way, shape or form. In fact, since her visit to the school the year before she found Dumbledore to be far less of a 'threat' than her previous boss had made him out to be. However she had no reason to believe that the boy was any more of a danger than Dumbledore, and point blank refused to hear anything to the contrary, at least not without any hard evidence.

Scrimgeour shook his head solemnly stealing a nervous glance towards the closed office door.

"There's just something…wrong…no, not wrong…I just don't like it. Honestly, what do we really know about him? Well I'll tell you what we know. Nothing. Not a smidgen. Where he's been, what he's been doing, **who** he's been talking to. You-Know-Who's been back for 3 years now, for all we know they could be working together! Allies in darkness!"

Scrimgeour's voice was now raspy and strained as he held up a slightly shaking finger, pointing towards the door. His face had turned the shade of beetroot and his right hand clutched the various bits of paper so tight they had creased and contorted to the point of no return. He stood like this for a while before collapsing in a wreck on his chair.

"I mean, for gods sake, why would he come back, what could he possibly want. Is it revenge...You don't think he's breaking the deal do you?…No…how could he...I'm finished, finished!...If this gets out Dolores…well…I wouldn't like to think what'll happen, the Wizenmagot would have my head!"

Dolores Umbridge had seen a lot in her lifetime. Yes, she certainly had dealt with extreme circumstances, and a Minister of Magic on the verge of a physical and mental breakdown was not one of them. In fact this was such a usual occurrence (most likely due to working under none other than Cornelius Fudge, ex- Minister of Magic) that she merely smiled at Scrimgeour and continued to file her pointy pink nails with her wand.

She allowed him to roar and rant, straining his raspy little throat to it's limits before she let out (what was most likely intended to be) a sympathetic sigh, finally raising her bulging toad-like eyes towards the mere shell of a man that sat, crumpled before her.

"My dear Minister-" she started, her wide smile grotesquely leering through the small beam of light emanating from the light hanging above.

"-I'm **sure** that if the boy was allies with you-know-who, we'd know. You know me Minister-" she drawled, eyes bulging suggestively "I, as you know, am not a fan of delinquency, or rudeness, or anything else in that particular stratosphere of social etiquette, however, the boy could not possibly know, and if he does I'm sure The Association would be happy to-" she continued but was interrupted by three sharp taps at the door.

"Minister!" a shrill, shriek pierced through the door.

"Minister!"

Scrimgeour plodded towards the door, with a flick of his wand the protective wards removed themselves, as the door slowly opened to reveal the Minister's personal secretary.

"Yes, Miss Ward?" Scrimgeour sighed, looking positively exhausted.

The secretary beamed up towards the Minister, her face the picture of respect.

"Veretia has arrived at Hogwarts and Pimmelfry has finished examining the boy!" she chirped, unable to hide the death-glare she flung towards Umbridge, before swirling on her heel and trouncing of towards her desk.

The Minister of Magic was exhausted, anyone could see that. The destruction of Big Ben had sent him over the edge. The message had finally sunk in. He wasn't going to win this war.

And he knew it.

**xxxxxxxxx**

"At this point I don't think it's necessary to find out exactly where he's been-" Dumbledore cut in, ignoring the desperate looking Minister who pattered beside him, like some kind of desperate dog.

"Yes but, we need to find out who he's been talking to. He knows of our world Dumbledore! He can perform advanced magic, too advanced. Way before his years! He neutralized three Aurors! Three!" Scrimgeour stuttered, his eyes bulging, not unlike his High Inquisitor, Dolores Umbridge.

The empty corridor in which they stood was deafeningly silent, the two of them stood alone, and yet they both stood observing the lake from the two large windows. The slight wind that had picked up over the course of the day was whistling in through the windows, and nudged slightly at Dumbledore's tired-looking beard. Although it was pretty clear that Dumbledore had heard what Scrimgeour had said, his face made no recognition to his whining, instead, he continued to stare apprehensively out toward the lake, as if an extremely disturbing event was occurring below.

"And what's more-" Scrimgeour continued, now facing Dumbledore.

"He hasn't spoken a word! He's hardly on **our** side Dumbledore!"

Dumbledore continued to nod knowingly, hoisting his half-moon spectacles higher on his crooked nose. It was most certainly unusual, and perhaps more importantly, worrying, to see Albus Dumbledore looking so apprehensive. He still made no move to face the Minister, and was now stroking his long silver beard in a rhythmical fashion.

"Yes…well, all we can do is wait…we can't force him Rufus. We need him to know we're on **his** side. Not question him to death." Dumbledore said, as Scrimgeour started to pace behind him.

Dumbledore continued to stare out the window, his face hidden by the natural darkness of the corridor. Yet this natural camouflage couldn't hide the distinct look of fear that was clouding his usually twinkling blue eyes.

Dumbledore was worried.

And rightly so…


	2. The Past and Partial Revelations

**!Warnings! **There **will** be spoilers for all six books, so if you haven't read them yet, which, I sincerely doubt, don't read on! (I'd hate to spoil it for ya!)

**!Desperate Plee! **If anyone is interested in Beta-ing this story for me please feel free to send me an E-Mail, oooooh and also, **please review**!

**!Suggested Recap! **Harry Potter was found by the designated Auror search team in Diagon Alley after being missing for 6 years, he was brought into Ministry custody. He hasn't spoken a word since his capture and his wand has been taken from him. Anti-Apparition veils have been placed upon him in order to prevent escape. He is sixteen years old; placing the plot, into what would be the beginning of book 6, being the year of 1996…

**!Author! **Happy Fingers

**The-Boy-Who-Fled**

**Chapter 2: The Past and Partial Revelations**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"_Forgive me for being over-zealous Harry, and, by all means correct me if I'm wrong, but I would like to know why you were at Gaunt's Shack in the summer, and, if I might dare, ask why you would attack me-?"_

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_July 1994, Southern Spain – Tossa De Mar – 10:35 pm_

The boy ran as fast as he could, his feet thumping painfully against the muddy forest floor. The small trickle of blood continued to travel slowly down the side of his face, and had (rather unpleasantly) begun to pool within his ear, causing him to feel positively nauseous. The violent shouts that traveled through the evening air weaved in and out of the trees, successfully infiltrating the boys head and fulfilling their purpose of causing his hairs to stand on end, and heart to thump faster than he ever thought possible.

They were close...

He couldn't help it, that infuriating need to cast a look over his shoulder had conquered him, and the moment he did it, he immediately cursed himself. The small group of men were running after him with frightening speed. Their angry faces illuminated against the black evening air by the flaming torches held high above their heads. Various assortments of curses, jinxes and hexes flew past the boy as he ran through the woods. The deep cut on his arm still searing from the dagger he was slashed with. They were deep in the forest, the bushes that sped past littered with large tropical flowers, and several foreign-looking animals that squawked in protest of being disturbed.

The thumps of the men's footsteps were growing closer and closer, despite the fact he was running as fast as he could manage, and the boy could clearly distinguish several voices, voices he was unfortunately far too familiar with.

Lucius Malfoy

Sirius Black

And Severus Snape

The usual mob…

He continued to run as fast as he could, ducking as brightly colored sparks flew overhead, and erupted, like confetti, against a particularly large tree trunk ahead. They were so deep in the forest now, that the nearby town of Tossa De Mar could no longer be seen or heard, despite the annual parade that was being celebrated, and the soft and gentle sea air was replaced by the humid, heavy blanket of heat that the forest had captured and retained as prisoner. The natural evening light soon began to deepen to the shade of darkness that would cause even the bravest of men to quiver in fear, and in doing so had hindered the boy's escape attempt to no ends. They seemed to be going uphill, as the forest steadily became denser and the path begun to slowly dwindle away to a small, barely visible patch of dead, trodden grass, and the icy-glare of the moon was eclipsed by the canvas of the trees above, that seemed, although most unlikely, to be closing in around the exhausted boy. He was loosing energy and fast, he knew he would have to stop soon, which considering his current situation could be considered fatal at best. They would have no trouble killing him, they'd got what they wanted from him, and he was expendable.

As the faint forest path twisted around a sharp bend, the young boy dived head-first into the undergrowth and ripped through the dense bush, mustering all the energy he had left. Tearing through the undergrowth he hopped and jumped over the roots and tree trunks, not daring to check if the men were following, and eventually stopped, crouching down as low as he could, panting and sweating.

He couldn't run anymore.

He ripped the sleeve of his sweat-drenched t-shirt, and wrapped it tightly around his slashed wrist, the fabric immediately turning a dark red, as the blood steadily seeped out. His forehead stung slightly from the beads of dried on sweat that were stuck there, and his drenched t-shirt clung to him uncomfortably.

The forest soon became quiet, and the boy struggled to gain control over his shaking legs, trying to hold them still as they twitched against a nearby bush. The men had stopped, and were now desperately peering into the woods, hissing and whispering to each other with sharp, short bursts of frustration. The boy held his breath, the men had seen him dive into the trees; they knew he was there…somewhere.

The boy crouched lower, striving to obtain the oxygen his lungs were craving for, and hoping the darkness would provide the cover he so desperately needed. In silence he started to mouth the ancient veiling charm, praying to god it would work. He couldn't be caught again; he doubted they'd allow him to break free twice. The muscles in his jaw were aching and cramped, and weren't helping in the boy's efforts to remember the incredibly complex ancient Sumerian charm he was taught so many years ago, as the images of the knife, slowly ripping against his skin, bore into his mind. His heart, once again, dropped to his stomach, as he remembered the shattered remains of his wand, which lay abysmally shattered in his back pocket.

The men spread out, using their torches to pierce the darkness, they were getting desperate.

Two of them however, hadn't moved a muscle and stood still, breathing heavily.

"We've lost him Severus" panted one of them, clutching his stomach tightly.

His face was a harsh red and his mouth twitched slightly as he stared through the woods, straight through the darkness, the hints of resentment carefully concealed beneath his exhausted exterior.

Beside him, Severus Snape's body visibly tensed, he understood what the man was saying, in fact, he expected it. The plan was bound to have hiccoughs, this was just a minor setback, or so he reassured himself. His dark, black orbs for eyes bulged venomously as he whirled around to face the man, his lips trembling.

"Get the others, we're done…" Snape snarled, as small sparks flew out the end of his tightly gripped wand.

He knew he'd lost him, and he knew he'd have to pay for it…

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_Present Day – August 2nd1996_

Dumbledore was not used to being nervous, in fact, the only recollection of the peculiar feeling was when he attended a rather strange Muggle sporting event, and, from that point onwards had decided it was best to disregard that particular feeling, and anything associated with it. For it fulfilled no other purpose than to cause his nose to sweat excessively.

And so, as he sat at his desk, he was understandably surprised at the fact his half-moon spectacles had an unending desire to slide off his crooked nose, and decided (half heartedly) that it was most likely down to the searing heat from the crackling fire, that lit up the usually darkened room.

However there were several reasons to cause Albus to feel nervous, not least, being the fact that his scheduled meeting with none other than Harry James Potter was about to commence in only a few moments.

Indeed, Dumbledore was apprehensive, to say the least, for he had no idea what to expect, if anything at all. Harry hadn't spoken a word to anyone since his…capture, and so Dumbledore wasn't quite sure how he would react to his arranged audience. With a final sip of his (excellently conjured) tea, he started to pile away the stacks upon stacks of paper that lay messily across the desk; leaving one final book resting neatly on the edge…he hadn't forgotten it. Oh no, behind every action lay a well defined purpose, well, it did with Dumbledore anyway. Dumbledore had read through the open book over a dozen times, each time his frown dropping to new levels.

_**The Pentagram**_

…**_A _****_pentagram, according to Muggle literature,_****_ is traditionally a five-pointed star drawn with five straight strokes. The word pentagram comes from the Greek word πεντάγραμμον. However in 1866, the discovery of the Elementary Pentagrams by Sayshi Kabbilini abolished all myths and unfortunately produced a few new ones. The Elementary Pentagrams were described as a metallic five-pointed star with intricate, weaving designs. On the end of each point is a socket for a gem to be placed. Once the gem is socketed into the Pentagram, removing the gem ruins both it and the pentagram. Five gems can be socketed into the Pentagram at any one time, and it is presumed, that the gems must match the element to which it is being added to, those being, of course; Fire, Water, Thunder, and Air. However the Pentagrams are rumored to be extremely powerful, and as such, were given to… _**

It was ridiculous really, he'd never even spoken to him, he wasn't related to him, and yet he felt an inexplicable sense of familiarity, as though Harry and he shared a bond, a link. Albeit, the nature of it eluded him. Though, this was not terribly good news. For Dumbledore had felt like this only once before, and with only one other.

Tom Riddle.

More commonly known as Lord Voldemort.

His heart gave a small flutter as three sharp taps sounded from the door.

He was here…

"Enter" said Dumbledore, rising from his chair, while smoothing down his creased, crinkly blue robes.

The heavy oak door was slowly pushed open, and there in the doorway stood Harry James Potter, alive and well. Leaning on one hip, he stood examining the office from the safety of the doorway, his arms folded across his chest. His dark skin was lit up by the soft light of the dancing flames and Dumbledore could clearly make out his sparkling emerald-green eyes, causing a lump to rise to his throat, he'd seen those eyes before. He was tall, far more so than the aged-wizard expected, and well-built. Dumbledore didn't find it in the least bit surprising that that Nymphadora was terrified of him, for he did indeed seem to carry a rather, venomous, aura about him…

However he was still a child, no matter how he acted, and Dumbledore forced himself to remember it. The Headmaster chuckled inwardly it seemed he was as confident as James was, that was easy enough to see. And his well built physique and spiky jet black hair reflected his personality well (from what Dumbledore had heard) Not to mention the questions he conjured, just from his appearance alone.

Just as Dumbledore opened his (slight dry) mouth to speak, he was interrupted.

"Is that Flamel!" Harry asked suddenly, walking briskly over to Dumbledore's wall of portraits and squinting towards one particularly recent addition.

"Pardon me?" Dumbledore asked, dumbstruck.

"Flamel. Nicholas Flamel, is that him?" Harry asked peering at the portrait while tracing a finger over Nicholas' strangely large nose.

"Yes it is, though-" Dumbledore answered, his eyes involuntarily watering at the mention of his recently deceased old friend.

"Wow-" Harry gasped "Didn't think he'd age that quick, last time I saw him, he looked as young at me!" he laughed, shaking his head slightly.

Intrigued, he stood and walked over to stand behind Harry, his elegant robes sweeping behind him majestically.

Dumbledore could always tell when someone had traveled, not from skin tone, nor mannerisms, or that annoying habit a traveler usually picks up, of believing that everyone is interested in their stories, no, it was their voice. And Harry's voice was a traveled one. It contained accents, a mix of countries and dialects all softly rolled together.

"You've met Nicholas?" he asked smiling at the younger boy, hoisting his half-moon spectacles further up his nose, as he tucked his small white handkerchief inside his shiny, blue robes.

Harry turned to face Dumbledore, a small frown flicking across his features slightly before his face resumed back to its nonchalant expression.

"Yeah a couple of times-" he started "-He helped me out when this Balrock Spider was-" He laughed before stopping abruptly, lowering his gaze to the floor. He'd said too much. His body visibly tense, it appeared, the silent Harry was beginning to return

Dumbledore was pleased, he was speaking. He wasn't angry or uncooperative, he was how he expected him to be, although maybe with a few extra little quirks that Dumbledore couldn't have possibly foreseen. Such as his rather…extravagant, attire. His tattered jeans, torn white t-shirt and presumably, dragon-skin jacket seemed to add that little extra to further his fierce appearance, and successfully removed any trace of Englishness that had once lingered there. The Headmaster was desperate to keep the atmosphere light, friendly, he needed to.

Harry briskly walked past Dumbledore, purposely avoiding his piercing glare as he moved over to face the open fire, his skin basking in the searing heat that vibrated through the room. His eyes glistened against the golden flames and Dumbledore could clearly see his jaw tensing and releasing rhythmically.

"Anyways, haven't seen him since you got the stone" he finished with a sharpness that couldn't be concealed through his playful attitude, he stood watching the flames dancing merrily, envious of them, they hadn't a care in the world…

Harry smiled as he turned around, now facing Dumbledore with an accusatory glare.

"Mind you, that didn't turn out to well, did it?" he asked with one eyebrow raised, and his mouth smiling just slightly, just enough for Dumbledore to be well aware that he was being made fun of, or accused.

Though what he said was true, he had allowed Voldemort to obtain the Philosiphers Stone, heck, he even employed him as a teacher!

Either way, the boy was well aware of the wizarding world, perhaps too aware, and thus, was causing Dumbledore's mind to spin. The two stood in silence watching the other, each with unreadable expressions. Their blue and emerald-green eyes locked together for several moments, neither blinking nor moving a muscle. Indeed, Dumbledore was perplexed, to say the least. The boy was unreadable, as though with every expression there was something more, like an iceberg, the real meaning hidden deep beneath an icy exterior. Though he hadn't dared to probe his mind, even for a second, for he was well aware that even if he tried, he would most likely not succeed. Dumbledore could feel Harry's magical essence as soon as he entered the building. It was overwhelming, yet Dumbledore could not decide whether this was a good or bad thing.

Eventually Harry broke off his gaze and moved to pass Dumbledore, walking over to the over-cluttered desk. Harry examined the huge piles of Daily Prophet's that were squared neatly against the edge, and picked up the one on the top, folding it out to read the headline.

**ELEMENTARY PENTAGRAMS MISSING!**

Harry sighed and placed the paper back on the pile, shaking his head slightly, as his eyes flicked across to the open book that lay squarely against the opposite edge. The two suited men that stood either side of the Goblin in the photo below the title looked a tad disgruntled, each of them walking of in a huff. Dumbledore was now at his desk, and sat back in his comfortable armchair. He watched Harry carefully, bringing his interlocked hands to his lips.

"They still haven't found the culprit. Rather worrying really…" Dumbledore smiled, blue eyes twinkling.

Harry stood nodding, as if he wasn't quite sure what to do or where to go, the façade faltering, if only for a millisecond.

Harry chuckled "Yeah well, I wouldn't worry about it…"

Dumbledore leant forward in his chair, elbows resting against the desk.

"Why would you say that?" he asked.

"Because the Ministry are too stupid to do their homework…hardly anyone's interested in the Elementary Pentagrams anymore, not with Voldemort about…" Harry explained pacing back on forth in the office.

"There's only a handful of people who would have the interest or the power to control **those** Pentagrams" he finished, clicking his knuckles unpleasantly.

"And who might that be? Dare I ask?" Dumbledore said, frowning ever-so-slightly, he knew the answer, actually, he was sort of dreading it, and yet, by the look on the boy's face, Dumbledore knew.

The shields the boy was putting up around himself caused Dumbledore's hairs to stand on end; he was protecting himself, subconsciously or not.

"Whatever" he shrugged "I'm not really one for games Dumbledore…" Harry smiled, examining a book he had plucked from the slightly overbearing pile of them that lay messily by the entrance.

He was far more intelligent than he let on, he knew Dumbledore was fishing, and he was having none of it.

"Forgive me Harry, playing '**a game**' wasn't my intention, I assure you. However I would sincerely like to know how on Earth you are aware of the Kiminari Ansatsusha?'' Dumbledore asked, with an accusatory glare in Harry direction.

Harry smiled at this, not looking at up from the (no doubt) enthralling book he was examining.

"Too long to explain…" he mumbled, switching his book for another on the shelf.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows in intrigue, trying to gain control over the smile appearing on his aged-face. Harry glanced at him and rolled his eyes slightly.

Dumbledore was pleased, in a peculiar way. The atmosphere had remained…pleasant, if only just slightly.

The two soon resumed to a comfortable silence once again, pierced only by Fawkes squawking lazily from the comfort of his stand. Dumbledore was desperate to continue the conversation, Dumbledore had made the connection between the Kiminari and the missing Pentagrams, but as far as he was aware, the Kiminari were a 'forbidden topic' something a sixteen year old boy **should** no **nothing** about. However he sensed it was over; Harry wasn't going to tell him anything more.

At least, not anytime soon.

"Harry, I think it's important to know that you are not a prisoner here." Dumbledore said eventually.

"I'm here to be a friend, not an enemy"

Harry stopped his pacing, coughed, and smiled at him playfully.

"Is that right?" he nodded in mock understanding.

"Then tell me **friend**, why am I not allowed my wand?" The atmosphere had changed once again, back to hostile, and Harry was no longer laughing, his emerald green eyes glaring as another wave of energy emanated from him, it was cold, and the fire flickered slightly.

"Because I think we both know how dangerous that could be, don't you agree?" Dumbledore said calmly, looking suggestively at his shriveled, blackened hand.

Harry held his gaze, not blinking. His lips were sealed together tightly and the book in his hand quivered, just slightly, and then stopped abruptly.

"Forgive me for being over-zealous Harry, and, by all means correct me if I'm wrong, but I would like to know why you were at Gaunt's Shack in the summer, and, if I might dare, ask why you would attack me-?"

Harry breathed heavily, carefully putting the dusty book back to its place. His back was towards him and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other awkwardly.

"-Yes Harry I do know it was you, though I am curious as to your motive. Did you want the ring?" Dumbledore's face was no longer twinkling, he was serious. The atmosphere had shifted. The control had shifted.

Harry turned towards Dumbledore, watched him for a moment, and finally spoke, the playful attitude long gone, as was the pleasantness in his voice.

"You attacked me first" he finally said, and Dumbledore could feel the temperature around the boy dropping, if only by a few degrees. Fawkes was awake now, he could feel the tension and was ready to defend his master if need be. He was glaring at Harry, and squawked threateningly.

"Hmm. Indeed, and I apologize for it. I was not aware it was you at the time, I'm sure you can understand, your…might I say elegant, black robe was a tad misleading, as I'm positive was your intention" Dumbledore said softly.

This was not how he wanted this meeting to go. Not a tall. He was losing him, something he couldn't afford to do. For all the countless ways Dumbledore had imagined him, this was not one of them. He'd wanted to find out why he'd left, where he'd been, and now, he found himself allowing Harry to slip away, he was losing him.

Again.

"You destroyed it? The ring, is that what happened to your hand?" he asked, a frown creasing his handsome features.

Dumbledore nodded slowly, his mind racing

Harry was most certainly far more intelligent than he was letting on, he had the cockiness of James and yet the fierceness of Lily, however there was something else.

Something dark, bitter about him.

Something unnerving.

"So if I'm not a prisoner here, when will you let me go?" Harry asked, now facing him, obviously the subject had (once again) changed.

He was still afraid, Dumbledore could tell. He wouldn't come near him, wouldn't sit and kept his distance. He was struggling to keep control. And still Dumbledore allowed the topic to be closed, he couldn't rush him. Yet this conversation was far from over, Harry had to know what was going on, it was Dumbledore's duty to tell him of the prophecy and Dumbledore was going too, he'd let his responsibility of protecting Harry to become overshadowed by fear once before, and he would never allow that to happen again. Ever.

"Harry, it's important you know all the facts…" Dumbledore started, and (to Harry's obvious dismay) conjured a pot of tea.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Rufus Scrimgeour was considered brave by a few, even courageous. Yet as he stood at the entrance to Knockturn Alley, nothing about the man was remotely heroic. He stood, quivering and flinching at the slightest movement or sound, the wand that was gripped tightly in his hand shaking. To him Knockturn Alley was a place of nightmares, somewhere only lowlifes and criminals went, somewhere a Minister of Magic had no place in being. And so as he lowered his hood, neatly concealing his face, he began to walk down the alleyway, dodging anyone that happened to pass him.

He stopped short of the Cranky Tavern and waited, as instructed, outside. Soon enough, a small frail man stepped from the door, his wart-ridden nose shining from the grease that covered it. The Minister watched him as he beckoned and, hesitated for a moment before following him in. The short man was only a few feet shorter than Rufus himself (though to the Minister, everyone was shorter than him) and his curly blonde hair didn't seem to match his peculiar, rather greasy-looking appearance The room was dark, and had that sort of damp scent that immediately caused anyone to feel lethargic. Though it wasn't the damp or dark that caused the Minister to have second thoughts, no, it was something else. The room was a bar, filled to the brim with people, creatures and whatever else occupied the dark corners, of the room. Several of these were wearing black cloaks, rocking back and forth on their chairs, muttering under their breath. The Minister was lead through the bar, the cloaked men reciting apparently random numbers over and over. Eventually they reached their destination, a small door at the side of the bar. The greasy little man leered at the Minister and stood aside, pointing the way. The Minister nodded and pushed through the door, with a cautious look behind glance behind him. The door shut behind him and the Minister was enveloped in darkness, save for the small tea light that hovered in the air, at the centre of the room. The Minister jumped slightly as he saw the Asian-looking man that sat below it, crossed legged. The bald man's frighteningly large physique was silhouetted by the small yellow flickering flame above. His large black thunderbolt tattoo across the side of his face, clearly visible.

The Minister scurried before him, and offered a short bow of the head, groveling pitifully.

"H-Hello there…n-nice to meet you!" he chirped as sincerely as he could muster.

He had practiced this moment several times in the mirror; however no amount of preparation would've been enough for the nervous old man. He was not accustomed to secret meetings like these, at least, not with these people.

"Sit" hissed the man, he was foreign, perhaps Japanese, yet he didn't move a muscle, sitting perfectly still.

"Y-Yes certainly" Scrimgour stuttered, removing his hood in the process, after casting another cautious glance behind him. There was no one else in the room, apart from the strange lump that lay in the corner of the room. Rufus didn't like to think what it was, though somewhere in distance those numbers could be heard.

"Have you brought the gems?"

The Minister was now sat on the small square pillow opposite the man, his leg tapping rapidly.

"Y-Yes" the Minister stammered, producing a small little yellow bag, and handing it over to the man.

"Then our business is done. He will be dealt with" the man said, sharply.

The Minister nodded rapidly in understanding, doing his best to keep his gaze away from the rather intimidating tattoo that occasionally lit up with the flickers of the flame. He knew the meeting would be short, but surely not…

"Leave" the man hissed.

The Minister nodded one again, apparently, the only recognition his body would allow. Clearly terrified, he clambered to a stand, a begun walking towards the exit.

"A-And n-no one will find out. No one will know it was m-me?" The Minister asked desperately.

But his question wasn't answered, his head started to spin and he landed in a heap outside the entrance to the Ministry of Magic.

That was it, the deal was done.

Everything would go back to normal, as promised, or so he thought…

* * *

**Please Review!**

**Note: **Thank you so much for all the reviews, they're all great!


	3. How Things Have Changed

**!For Those Of You Who Are Confused! **Please don't worry, you're **supposed to be**. I have written with the **intent** to raise questions, they **will **all be answered in due time. Some things can be solved with logic though, for example…a special event occurred in Book 4 – 1999, that enabled Voldemort to fully return. If you look back at the previous chapter a certain event took place during 1994, all the clues are in the chapters and a lot of things can be solved with a bit of thinking. However if you, like me, would rather wait than strain your brain, then by all means do, all will be revealed. In due time, in due time…

**!Second Warning!** Certain relationships soon to be revealed may upset certain readers, although I personally cannot see why, and so, this is hereby the first and only warning you will receive! (Oh and I mean HarryxGinny kind of stuff, before you get worried. Although it won't be HarryxGinny. Ever.)

**!Author!** Happy Fingers

**The-Boy-Who-Fled**

**Chapter 3: How Things Have Changed…**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"_Either Dumbledore had been kept _out_ of the loop on social etiquette and the ways of the young, or, it was still, as he suspected, not considered the norm to answer the door completely naked"_

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

It was cold, the beginnings of Autumn beginning to creep through the late-summer air. The light breeze that rolled gently off the nearby mountains traveled gently through the extensive maze of Hogwarts' corridors, rattling against the ancient (and sometimes, rather dangerous) armor display's that stood as a kind of decoration against the lavish walls of the ancient school. The occasional (and somewhat spooky) sounds that usually accompanied the arrival of the evening could be heard throughout Hogwarts, and as such, were doing nothing to aid in the attempts of one young man's strained efforts to fall asleep. Harry James Potter lay on the extremely comfortable bed, staring at the high ceiling that stretched before him, allowing the cold evening air to spread across his naked skin. He couldn't sleep, he'd tried, however his mind was swarmed with the day's events, Dumbledore's face and voice clouding his mind intermittently, between the elaborate escape attempts that subconsciously crept in from within him. He chuckled to himself, he was so used to escaping, avoiding capture, and now, now he was laying in a bed, his wand returned to him, with an open window merely a few meter's away. He was no one's prisoner, in fact, he'd been given the chance to leave, and yet here he was.

How things had changed…

It was amazing really, how only a few words could turn someone's life around so completely that their sense of living, their purpose, could be overturned in milliseconds. Any plans, desires, ambitions, could be shattered into a million pieces by someone's voice, by someone parting with, what was presumed to be, necessary, essential knowledge.

Yet as Harry lay there he could not fathom the intent behind Dumbledore's actions. For no amount of pacing, nervous finger-tapping and endlessly painstaking dramatic actions such as washing his face and peering into the cracked, dirty mirror could dispel the sense that he still, despite Dumbledore's reassurances, didn't know everything. How could he, a runaway, a 'disappointing non-existent legend' (as the Daily Prophet had once put it) defeat the most powerful Dark Wizard in the world? The mere thought of it caused Harry's head to throb painfully. But even as it did, Harry was not prepared to accept the fact that either he or Voldemort would die. Harry didn't live by destiny or fate. He made his own future.

Frustrated Harry stood from the bed and walked to the open window, smiling as the wave of bitter evening air washed over him, the moonlight reflecting, as if like some kind of picturesque painting, against the dark, mysterious lake that lay far below. He was not prepared for this, and as he watched the moon, he couldn't help but doubt what he'd been told.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_Below the Bolshoi Theatre – Moscow, Russia – Present day_

Albert Cavos had celebrated his 182nd Birthday as anyone who had lived that long would have. Mind you, he sincerely doubted the fact that any human would enjoy the subtle niceties of having three young Russian virgins to bleed dry after a gourmet meal of veal and pig's blood, and so, in actual fact, he had celebrated the way any 165 year old Vampire would have, never mind any pitiful humans. The stacks and stacks of presents that were piled high in the corner were a pleasant reminder of just how much Albert was respected by the numerous Vampire Clans around the world, and as such, he allowed himself to feel relatively loved at the prospect of what lay within the peculiar boxes and bags.

As with any Vampire, Albert had steadily grew in rank, becoming a fatherly figure to any 'newborns' around the bustling city of Moscow. The Bolshoi Theatre was a grand building, something Albert was exceptionally proud of. As a human, he had been commissioned to restore the Theatre in 1836, and due to his untimely demise at the hands of a recently deceased vampire, he continued to rebuild, with the intention to build a marvelous layer for the vampire population of Russia. The fruits of his labour were clear to see, the luxuriously crafted underground halls, a welcome dwelling from the harsh sunlight above ground. The numerous halls and corridors were filled to the brim with satisfied Vampires, relishing in the glory of having recently killed, and drunk dry, numerous people who, according to their murderers would not be missed, or even noticed in the first place. Albert was now what was commonly known as the Suveran (king vampire – in Romanian) and as such was extremely concerned when his messenger, Kayshaii-Lan, had reported Harry potter's disappearance. Yes, it was extremely worrying, for the young Mister Potter, was someone the Suveran was indebted to. And Vampires **always** repaid their debts, **especially** to a Wizard.

"Sire, there's something else…" Kayshaii added, his glowing, silver eyes cautiously flicking about the room for people listening in.

Several people, vampires actually, were not favorable to the young Mister Potter, doubtlessly due to the fact the young boy had once, set fire to several of their kind.

"I'm listening" the Suveran said, leaning forward from his throne. Well aware the surrounding crowd would not take kindly to the Suveran inter-mingling, once again, with the affairs of Wizards…

"It's The Association Sir…" Kayshaii started.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Harry knew someone was behind him, he could sense them. His training several years ago had enabled him to become strikingly aware of any presence, magical or not. Yet he didn't move, not a muscle, instead, staring wide-eyed at the huge silver moon that floated menacingly amongst the starry sky, watching the way its reflection mixed together in the glass of the window. Harry wasn't worried, he was always prepared, he'd be able to strike the intruder down before he could even think. The second rustle came from Harry's bed, clambering about in the darkness, apparently the intruder was finding it difficult to see through the thick blanket of darkness, and still, Harry made no move to apprehend the him. Instead watching the small little person potter about behind him. Harry waited for the perfect moment, he always enjoyed this part.

"Hello Dobby" Harry said suddenly, watching him jump in the window's reflection.

Harry laughed gently, as Dobby's eccentric personality began to return within his memory, he was most certainly, the most bizarre…person, he'd ever met in his life. (And **that** was saying something) especially when you considered the likes of Richard Borkagule – now **he** was a funny one.

"Oh-Sir-Harry, Harry-Sir, Dobby-is-so-sorry, I-was-so-startled, Sir-Harry-knew-I-was-here, but-" Dobby rambled, covering his slightly-grubby head with the duvet on the bed, pushing his long ears down the side of his face. His scrawny little legs shaking so much, that his nobly knees clanged together violently.

Suddenly aware he was stood topless, Harry walked around the bed, plucking a t-shirt from the messy pile of clothes that lay in heap on the floor. Dobby, who was watching him like a dog watches his food bowl, could only just be seen through the darkness, his huge fish-like eyes glinting in the moonlight sifting in through the window.

"So…whatcha' doin here?" Harry asked, his face momentarily covered by the small white t-shirt he was pulling over his head. The last time he had seen Dobby was under slightly strenuous circumstances. Or, as one might say, absolutely, hair-raisingly terrifying…

"Dobby had heard that Harry Potter was at Hogwarts! Dobby didn't believe it but…here you are!" he chirped, his thumping knees subsiding to a faint chatter.

Harry laughed as he sat down opposite the house-elf, fastening his undone belt around his waist. The usual twinges of guilt that came hand in hand with meeting with the little house-elf, begun to bubble within him. Dobby had kept Harry's whereabouts a secret for years, even from Dumbledore, and, in doing so, had found suitable punishments for it. The most stomach churningly awful consisting of, whacks around the head with a spatula, an iron to the head, and perhaps the most-terrible being, several painful visits to the Whomping Willow.

"Yeah…here I am" Harry muttered, shaking his head, unable to hide the whisper of sadness within his voice.

"Dobby wanted to check Harry Sir was alright sir!" Dobby twittered, he jumped off the bed and had moved to face Harry, locking his eyes with the young man.

Harry smiled, shrugging slightly. "Well…here I am…I'm fine" he answered, doing his best to maintain the happy-go-lucky attitude he had unknowingly acquired over the years.

Dobby smiled widely, his large pointy ears drooping ever-so-slightly, he knew Harry was lying and yet he said nothing, knowing full well Harry was not a sharer, and whatever it was that was bringing him down, would remain safely locked away deep inside him.

"Dobby hasn't seen Sir Harry in so long, not since Siberia, he hasn't!"

Harry had known Dobby for nearly 5 years, and they had parted under, let us say… interesting circumstances. Shaking his head to dislodge the unpleasant memories that came hand in hand with the mention of Siberia, he knew the question was coming, and as far as he could see, there was no way out of it.

"H-Have you s-seen…him s-since sir-" Dobby asked, his quirky little voice not able to hide the nervousness that intermingled with it.

"-No. I haven't. And I don't intend to" Harry said quickly shaking his head, he knew Dobby would bring him up, but he wasn't ready yet, he didn't know if he ever would be…

Harry's eyes fell to the package Dobby was overturning in his hands.

"What's that?" he asked, intrigued, and delighted that the small package provided another talking point.

Dobby took a few steps towards Harry, his watering eyes widening further still, at the sight of his scar. Slowly he started to unwrap the brown box, and shoved his hand inside, pulling out a shiny, silver necklace. Like any other piece of jewelry the small silver chain seemed delicate and expertly crafted, and, at the end of it, hung a lavish symbol, that at first glance appeared to be a kind of cross.

Harry stood from the bed, watching the necklace with a frown, he knew what that meant.

"I think it's time you had this back" he squeaked, holding it out for Harry to take, while his eyes flicked about the room.

Harry watched the Pendant as it swung in the slight breeze, he hadn't seen it in nearly three years and knew, as he took it from Dobby's grubby hands, that receiving the Pendant meant nothing but trouble, the kind of trouble that Harry was all too familiar with.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Veretia Tricksalonge and Dolores Umbridge were the subject of wide speculation throughout the political hemisphere of the Wizarding community. The two frightfully obnoxious women were at the centre of one of those family issues that had so many layers, delved so deep. So complicated, that no-one dared to ask as to why the aura of hatred that floated between the two women, filled the air with such an intoxicating sense of awkwardness, that any innocent bystander would be reduced to a mere speckle of what they were, inching away to the farthest place available, while, in turn, avoiding the gaze of anyone that happened to be nearby.

To safety.

The two hadn't spoken in nearly 20 years, and, as a result, had resorted to ignoring the others' presence whenever the two were forced to share the same room, relying on the age old comfort of the (now extremely familiar) steely silence, the answer to everyone's problems…

As a result of this, the room in which they were sat was deathly quiet, pierced occasionally by the exhausted looking Minister that sat across from them, moaning in apparent pain. It was hot in the office, and as per usual, the large closed windows remained painfully shut, the sun pouring in through the tiny gaps in the dusty blind, that, like the windows, were never open, no matter the circumstances. The Minister sat in his usual position behind the desk, his slightly balding head slumped in his hands. He was in the process of his, (now almost ritualistic) habit of moaning and groaning unpleasantly, in the face of the increasing pile of problems that steadily appeared on his lap. Across from him, the two sisters were watching with mild-disinterest, apparently far too busy avoiding each others gaze, to take any notice to the distressed man.

"So-" Veretia started, leaning her pointy nose forward towards the exhausted looking man.

"I take it that you have been in contact with him?" she inquired, her eyebrows raised abnormally high.

The Minister looked up from his sorrowful position, his bloodshot eyes flicking between the two women that sat before him.

"No, I talk to an associate, they'd hardly let me talk to him would they, if he's even alive yet…" he sighed.

Scrimgeour had always known he was brighter than the average wizard, hence his current position as Minister. Yet as he sat in his secret meeting, the third one of the month, he knew he'd made a mistake. It was clear he was in over his head, it was all very well his two most trusted advisors nodding in understanding, agreeing to whatever he said, despite the constant drabble of nonsense that spilled from his quivering mouth. Yet they knew little of the extent to which the Ministers problems delved, and thankfully, were blissfully unaware of the mounting problems that, despite their ignorance, involved them just as much as it did the Minister.

The two women had understood the Ministers position, they might've even done the same, although they most definitely would have approached it in a completely different matter. Honestly, the Kiminari were a lethal group, and their ties with the boy may well only complicate matters. But if there's one rule the two women had stuck to all their lives (drummed into them by their rather overly-cautious father) it was that Dark Wizards **never** kept their promises, no matter what they said, or promised.

"So…when will it happen?" Dolores asked, leaning just that little bit further forward than her shorter sister. Dolores had always strived upon the fact that she was far taller than her sister, most likely due to the fact that her mother was over 6ft tall while Veretia's was, what Muggles commonly referred to, as a Hobbit.

"Soon…I don't know when…" The Minister muttered, shaking his head.

The dimly lit office, once again descended into the comfortable silence it was used to, each of it's occupants thoughts drifting to the future and what it would hold for them. They had just averted the most dangerous political scandal in the history of Wizarding Politics, and yet, each of them continued to battle the demons that resided within them. For no amount of reasoning could dispel the awful fact that, collectively, they had just arranged another persons death…

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Harry was awoken by the sharp twitterings of a robin, perched merrily upon the window sill, his red chested feathers illuminated by the summer sun that strived to gain control over the creeping Autumn clouds. He lay there exhausted, amongst the fluffy duvet and pillows, his scar unusually throbbing. Shaking his head he sat up, desperate for his brain to have at least five minutes peace. Unfortunately, the sleep he had been so desperate to have, had done nothing to ease his mind, and had, with the help of an extremely awful dream, catapulted his anxiety so high that Harry felt as if the best thing to do would be to run and hide.

And why not?

He'd done it for the past six years.

Another fifty couldn't hurt…could it?

Sighing he threw back the bed covers and proceeded to the showers, not bothering to remove the silver chain that hung around his neck.

The bathroom was smothered in steam as Harry stepped out the shower, grabbing a towel as he walked back into his room. As he began to dry his wet hair, knocking sounded from the door. Without hesitation Harry turned and opened it, smiling as the rather taken aback Albus Dumbledore stood there.

Harry only smiled, continuing to dry his hair.

Dumbledore fixed his eyes to Harry's. His rose tinted cheeks nicely contrasting his dark blue robes.

"Good morning" he smiled, careful to maintain eye-contact.

Either Dumbledore had been kept out of the loop on social etiquette and the ways of the young, or, it was still, as he suspected, not considered the norm to answer the door completely naked. Harry however seemed completely oblivious to this and continued to dry his hair while watching Dumbledore with an unreadable expression.

"Yes…just informing you that breakfast will be ready shortly…I trust you can find the way to the great hall once you're…" Dumbledore coughed slightly before continuing.

"…fully dressed. The paintings will give you directions if you get lost" he smiled and swiftly left.

Harry shrugged and closed the door, apprehensive as to the day's upcoming events. He was to meet some of the Order today, something he definitely did not want to do. Sighing he got dressed, forcing himself to focus his attention on anything but the resisting the urge to run and jump out the window.

Half an hour later, he was ready, smoothing down his expensive (if he'd have bought it) jacket. With one last longing look towards the window he left the room, holstering his wand in the custom made holster that hung nicely on his jeans. He begun to make his way through the halls of Hogwarts careful to ignore any pictures that seemed to have an undying need to talk to him, stopping occasionally to admire the extravagant armor and numerous, and most definitely lethal, weapons that were presumably displayed for visual beauty only. Harry had always wanted a sword, he found their whole nature to be…enticing. He'd once been given a one, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, however it was soon destroyed, along with anything else that was once precious in his life.

"HARRY POTTER!" one of the paintings shrieked at the top of their voice. So loud in fact, that two nearby owls that were lounging happily on a particularly fanciful window-sill, almost fell off, before regaining their balance and flying away in a huff.

Harry, who had endured a constant barrage of these outbursts the moment he had left the safety of his room, thought nothing of this distinct cry, and continued to walk down the corridor, despite the sobbing of the two little hobbits that followed him through the paintings. It was only after they yelled a second time that Harry's hairs began to stand on end, and he began to take notice, turning his head to listen.

"THEY'VE BEEN ATTACKED!" one of them bellowed, clinging onto the horse they were riding through the paintings. His voice was old, as if he'd lived for several years, and was slightly muffled, most likely due to the curly silver moustache that twitched above his mouth.

Harry turned at this, drawing his wand instinctively.

"Who's been attacked? Where?" he asked, his voice calm.

One of the hobbit's had jumped of the horse now and was clawing against the surface of the painting, desperate to escape, his rather chubby belly seeping out the small gap where his shirt met his trousers.

"Oh thank god! I saw it all, absolutely everything! I couldn't believe it, they were attacked, before my very eyes!" he stuttered.

Harry rolled his eyes, he had no time for this.

"Yes but **who **attacked them, **where** are they? He asked, struggling to keep is voice from shouting, at the little man, painting…thing.

"I-I don't know! They had tattoos, h-horrible tattoos!"

But Harry was already gone, he was ready to fight…

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Voldemort sat in the worn chair, enjoying the sound of the leather protesting to the weight pressed down upon it. His long, bony fingers wrapped around the edge of the armchair as he tapped his foot gently against the floor. His black, velvet cloak rubbed against his snake-like skin as he was handed the message he had been waiting to receive.

_Xcne'ug snhmw Kdffg Ohnnwu!_

Voldemort smiled as he unfolded the yellow bit of parchment, reading the encrypted note that was sprawled messily across it. Indeed, he had been disappointed in the efforts of his spies within the Order, and had considered 'removing' one of them to set an example, but now, now his patience was paying off. This was what he was waiting for.

_They've found Harry Potter!_


	4. The ReMergence of Lost Knowledge

**!Thank you! **Just wanted to say thank you so much for all your reviews, I'm lovin them all, especially the guesses at what's going on! Please review this chapter too (if you like it), it really makes my day. If anyone has any suggestions please, say it in your review, I'd be happy to receive them!

**!Update Warning! **As I don't have a Beta-Reader (hint, hint), after the publishing of this chapter **I will be editing all past chapters**, to make sure they're extra spiffy! As such, the updating of the next chapter will take a bit longer than usual, sorry for any inconvenience this may cause to all you lovely readers!

**!Before you flame! **I am well aware that Argus Filch is a squib in the Books, and also please remember that this is** FANFICTION**, therefore things **will** be different from canaon, this is the purpose of this site. Also I am aware that in Chapter 1 it is said Voldemort has been back for three years, however six years ago he obtained the Philosiphers Stone, I've done this because, like in the books, just because he was back does not mean everyone believed it until Voldemort made his first 'public' appearance. This is why the dates are different…

**!Author! **Happy Fingers

**The-Boy-Who-Fled**

**Chapter 4: The Re-Mergence Of Lost Knowledge**

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"_The spasming of her body slowly subsided as did the painful cries of those who had witnessed her demise. And so, another body joined those who had already accepted their fate, albeit proudly, and, the attacker began to move on to his next victim."_

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Knowledge.

Knowledge is everywhere. It surrounds us, it weaves its way through life, coming between us, bringing us together and sometimes, sometimes breaking us apart. Human nature is, although we don't like to admit it, controlled by knowledge. Its power is undeniable. Several sayings, theories, and stories attempt to describe knowledge, to explain it, perhaps to ease the over abundance of it that is pressed down upon us every waking moment of our lives. Maybe those who create these descriptions hope, in some way or another, that they make the daunting prospect of struggling through the copious amounts information that surrounds us in life seem less…frightening.

However those considered wisest amongst us do not attempt to explain away knowledge, they do not aim to ease its power, or hide behind it, for they recognize it for what it is.

Dangerous.

To them knowledge equals power, without knowledge, we, as beings, are worthless. They recognize its potential, and they utilize it. One such person had learnt this from a young age, and had, later in life, become the most powerful wizard of his time.

And his name is Lord Voldemort.

The Dark Lord, as they call him (a name Tom Riddle himself was incredibly proud of) was well aware of the necessity of knowledge, and, perhaps more importantly, knew how to implement it, and as a result, had become who was today.

Minerva McGonagall was also one of the lucky few to be aware of this vital lesson in life. She, like the Dark Lord, had learnt the necessity of knowledge from a young age; she had developed the uncanny ability to retain any particular granule of information upon a mere whim, causing it to stick with her for eternity. Yet as she landed with a painful crash at the end of the usually immaculate Great Hall, she had no recollection of the men who were attacking them. She did not recognize the thunderbolt tattoos sprawled across their Asian-looking faces, despite the fact that, although several, several years ago, she had once actively sought them out, researched them, and then, consequentially, ran from them. Somehow her uncanny ability at retaining information had eluded her, and as her leg seared with pain, as it twisted and broke with a sharp snap, she still, could not remember who these men were, or, why they were attacking them.

The Great Hall lay in ruins, its floor littered with rubble, glass, remnants of scorched wood and most worryingly, bodies. The three attackers had moved quickly and efficiently, they were deadly, and prepared. The dwindling remains of the Order fought as valiantly as they could, defending their injured comrades, while at the same time trying to stay alive, which in itself, was no mean feat. A few feet away from Minerva lay an unconscious Molly Weasley, her red hair was stained dark crimson, the deep gash on her neck continuing to gush blood onto the dusty floor as various hexes, curses and jinxes flew through the air. Next to her lay her husband, unlike his wife, he was conscious, however his legs were badly injured and no matter what he did, he could not muster the energy to move, even as one of the men strode towards him, about to finish him off.

Minerva summoned her wand to her, but nothing came, she willed with all her might for her wand to return but still, nothing. She was too weak, drained. She couldn't understand it, they had no wands, yet they were performing magic, dangerous magic. Even Dumbledore himself was struggling She only just managed to spit out the thick, syrupy blood that pooled within the back of her throat unpleasantly as she tried to inspect her leg, coughing and spluttering as it spilled over her chin, and down her chest. Her once grey hair was now a mixture of black burnt marks, brown dust, and blood, all of it hanging wildly at her shoulders. Her leg was fractured, badly, a small bump in her robes telling Minerva all she needed to know, she was not going anywhere. As if in slow motion, another extremely powerful spell then hit her square in the chest, causing her head to whip back, she fell slowly to the floor, blood spraying from her mouth as she did so. In the distance Albus Dumbledore's voice could be heard bellowing her name, telling her to run, he was tryingly desperately to get to her, to help her. Minerva's head hit the floor with a sickening crack as she struggled to breathe through the massive amounts of blood pouring from her mouth. She couldn't breath. All that stood between her and her attacker now was none other than Argus Filch, the man fought bravely, protecting his Deputy Headmistress with his life, but Minerva knew he wouldn't last long. They were too strong. They were going to lose.

Thud.

Another body had fallen, that only left three standing. Tears stung at Minerva's eyes threatening to trickle down her battered cheeks, she had fought so long, so hard, it couldn't be the end now. Even though Argus Filch was a particularly powerful Auror, he didn't stand a chance. Minerva tried to warn him, to tell him to run, but she couldn't, she was in too much pain to speak as another puddle of blood gargled at the back of her bleeding throat and bubbled uncomfortably. The man Argus was fighting deflected his jinx effortlessly and in a flash was standing in front of him. Within moments Filch was floating in the air, his assailant laughing wildly, and, with an earsplitting scream the man fell to the floor, a glowing yellow mist crackling around the injured man. Minerva tried to move, urged her aching body with all her might to stand, but as she watched the man stride towards her, the evil grin spread across his face, she knew it was useless.

He was standing above her now, and cocked his head to one side, smiling in mock sympathy. Minerva McGonagall was not one to beg, she was a proud woman, and would rather be eaten alive by dung beatles than let her assailant know she was terrified. And so, as he began the spell that he had performed on Argus, Minerva McGonagall watched him defiantly, she was not afraid, she was terrified…

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 1936_

"Yes, Minerva" Professor Hogden sighed, he was understandably exasperated at the fact that the only relief from the nerve grating silence that smothered the classroom was Minerva's desperate attempts to answer every singly question correctly, gasping and sighing with her hand up to get the Professor's attention at every given opportunity.

Theodore Hogden had applied for the teaching position at Hogwarts immediately after his resignation from The Association. He could no longer take the stress of the job, the secrecy, the lies. It had all become too much for the young man. Hogwarts was, what he considered to be, a safe haven from the harsh reality of the world. There was no talk of assassinations, undercover operations, cover stories or political scandals. No, in Hogwarts it was O.W.L.S, N.E.W.T.S, who kissed who, and who has the worst haircut. Something Theodore was thoroughly enjoying. Although it was not nearly as exciting as traveling around the world, searching for gems, or, quite possibly protecting the world from the greatest threat ever to endanger human kind, he still found his cozy, little classroom, to be the safest place for him.

The end of the lesson couldn't have come soon enough, for student and teacher alike. Everyone jumped up from their seats, the room erupting with the sound of hungry students. Apparently, they couldn't get out the room quick enough, as each and every one of them clambered to fit through the small doorway leading to freedom, resulting in something similar to a clogged up drain. There was one student however, who had not moved, in fact; she hadn't even packed away her things. She merely sat there, smiling at Theodore. Truth be told, Theodore had suspected that Minerva had the slightest little crush on him. She stayed behind every lesson, smiling pleasantly doing some further reading or quizzing Theodore on the previous lesson. The usual barrage of questions would be flung at him until her thirst for information had been quenched (usually being half way through the lunch hour) and then the two of them would walk to the Great Hall for a spot of lunch, discussing magical theory and it's uses. Today however, Minerva was not smiling, instead she was flicking through the pages of an extremely old book, her thin lips pursed together tightly. Theodore began to pack away his things, presuming Minerva was not there to 'chat' and after several moments relished the idea that he may actually be able to have a full lunch hour today. With that thought in mind he bolted to the door, but as his rather chubby fingers clasped desperately around the thick black handle Minerva McGonagall's voice could be heard.

"Sir!" she asked, swiveling on her stool.

Theodore sighed, removing his hand from the handle that was freedom and turned, smiling.

"Yes Minerva"

"I was wondering whether I could ask you to explain something to me?" Minerva hands were twiddling around each other rapidly as her voice quivered slightly. She was nervous about what she was asking. Theodre wasn't the most sensitive of people but even a Balrock Spider would be able to see it. Theodore moved to sit on the stool opposite the young woman, placing his tattered briefcase on the table.

"Go ahead" he nodded.

Theodore was not an extremely large man, but indeed he certainly wasn't small either. His tweed suit struggled to fit around the, let us say plump, man, the buttons bulging threateningly, as his suede elbow patches squeaked every time he moved. His short grey hair had begun to thin on top, reminding Theodore most unpleasantly of his father. Since working for the Association his body had evidently crumpled under the pressure, ageing rapidly. His once fit and able body had become a frail shriveled vessel that carried a mentally exhausted man.

Minerva breathed heavily, avoiding her teacher's apprehensive gaze. Without looking up from the book that was laid before her, she swiveled it on the table, sliding it towards the teacher slowly. She was watching him now, her eyes wide, she was waiting. Confused, Theodore took the book, and judging by his expression, was less than pleased to see what was in it.

**Kiminari Ansatsusha – (See Book of Kokoroe 23:11:44)**

Theodore began to shake his head vehemently, muttering under his breath.

"M-Minerva…t-that's not… t-they're not…I-it's not the kind of thing you would…want to know about" He stuttered, backing away form his stool slowly.

Minerva's expression had not changed, she was still waiting for the answer, and, a young Minerva was no different to the much older, wiser version. She would get what she wanted, by any means necessary.

"Oh Sir…I just wondered where I could find the book of Kokoroe I'm not interested in-" dropping her gaze to the thick black writing sprawled across the page, providing the best performance she could muster. "-The Kiminari, I've just heard a lot about the book and was wondering where I might obtain it"

Theodore's face collapsed from its tormented position, visibly horrified at his outburst. Nodding vehemently he offered a smile, not something dissimimilar to his Uncle Lockhearts' business smile, the kind of smile that caused numerous faces to grimace in disgust. Minerva had obtained all that she needed from Hogden. Her suspicions were realized, and in doing so, she had found her way in. Even if the door was somewhat obstructed at the moment, she had had no doubt in her mind that soon, very soon, she would know all she needed to know about the Kiminari Ansatusha…

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Three days later Minerva awoke bright and early, ready for the day ahead. Today was the day she would implement 'Phase 2' of her masterfully crafted plan. Her last encounter with Theodore Hogden had gone exactly to design, he knew of the Kiminari, more so than Minerva first thought, but she needed to find out exactly what he knew, and perhaps more importantly, how he knew it. After getting dressed she went to her profoundly organized bed stand and opened the small cupboard within it. With three sharp taps to the back a secret compartment flashed open. Inside it lay a crumpled, ripped piece of paper. Cautiously Minerva snatched it, quickly opening it to make sure everything was in order. Stuffing the bit of paper into her robes she proceeded to the dungeons, where she knew that (from a rather nifty piece of spying she had performed) Professor Hogden would be eating his breakfast, going over some 6th Year papers.

Minerva arrived at the door, cleared her throat and slowly pushed the heavy door open. Theodore should have been sitting at his desk, most likely drinking pumpkin juice (his favorite drink) while humming that awfully peppy tune he sung whenever he was concentrating. He was not. The plan was not going according to schedule. Disgruntled, she entered the, presumably empty, dungeon. As she walked up to the desk, Minerva's hairs began to prickle.

Something was not right, Minerva could smell it…

Several papers were strewn across the table, and on the top of one, lay a quill that had fresh ink gleaming at the end of it. Next to it was a large yellow mug filled to the brim with pumpkin juice. Minerva felt her hairs rise as the chilly wind rushed in through the open window, and went to close it, extremely perplexed as to where her 'way in' could be. Pulling the window closed with all her might (it was extremely stiff) she turned to leave, out of breath.

It was then that she saw him.

On the floor lay Professor Hogden, and around him a thick dark pool of what Minerva could only think was blood. He was laying on his front, his white eyes wide in shock, as sharp crackles of yellow energy snapped around his body. However the thing that caused Minerva to heave was not the stench of death, or the coagulating thick pool of blood she was standing in. No it was something far more horrific. Something that certified Minerva's suspicion that this was a murder.

The numbers 6, 12, 88, 94, 59 and 3 were carved down the centre of his back, the cut's going so deep into his flesh that Minerva could have sworn that segments of his spine were visible.

However any thought of despair or fear were expelled as a rustle sounded from the centre of the classroom.

Someone was there.

Minerva shot upwards, removing her wand and pointing it towards the sound, her skinny arms shaking. There was no one in sight yet Minerva stood deathly still, straining her ears for the slightest sound. There was most definitely someone there. Minerva was unsure what to do, for she knew it was most unlikely that she would be unable to defend herself against someone, or something, that had infiltrated Hogwarts undetected, yet her feet were staying firmly put.

However it seemed, knowledge, and a powerful brain was not everything in life. For the young Minerva McGonagall had no idea that a few feet behind her, an Asian looking man was silently climbing out the window. And before she could to turn around to inspect the small thump that came from the window he was gone, running towards the woods, his thunderbolt tattoo carefully concealed within his elegant black robe.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

The sun was shining down upon the busy, bustling crowds of Hogwarts, moving their way to and from classes, the funeral of Professor Hogden the interesting talking point of the week. However Minerva McGonagall had not yet rejoined the repetitive ritual that was school life. No, she was sat at her dormitory window, clutching a small ripped piece of paper, struggling to keep her stinging tears at bay. She had been questioned so excessively over the past three days, been quizzed so thoroughly about Hogden's murder, that she could now predict what questions they would ask her and answer them rapidly before they could even finish. She unfolded the piece of paper that lay in her hands and sighed, she still, despite her research, could not possibly comprehend the numbers sprawled messily across it.

On her bed lay The Book of Kokoroe, left to Minerva from Theodore. She'd read it through, once, twice, maybe even three times. And yet she couldn't absorb what it was saying, she still could not understand what Theodore was trying to tell her.

**_The Kiminari by Nicholas Flamel_**

_**Little is known about the ancient race of the Kiminari, other than what has been recorded by surviving witnesses, which I assure you, is very little. The Kiminari are known to originate from Japan, and it is confirmed that they follow a god named Quezacotl. Several theories have derived from these two simple facts, however, this book has not been written to aid imbeciles in providing mere guesswork and assumption.**_

**_According to eye-witnesses the Kiminari are 'Asian-looking' confirming the theory of them originating from Japan. It is also theorized, that although the Kiminari posses magical ability, they, unlike Wizards, were limited to certain magic's, although the specifics are sketchy. _**

_**It is well known that the Kiminari are also able to drain magical ability, to suck the magic energy out of anything. Including living things. Due to this, it is widely hypothesized by many (including me) that the Kiminari are responsible for the condition known to us as 'Squib'.**_

**_It is well documented that thousands of years ago, the Wizarding population were at war with a race other than Muggles. Several people have provided numerous explanations as to who this 'race' was. However from recent documentation and investigation, it is most likely that this race was the Kiminari. After the war, the first 'Squibs' begun to appear, leading to more evidence that the Kiminari are able to drain the magic's out of people._**

_**Although I myself, completely discredit this theory, it is my duty to pass on the information as promised, within this book. The leader of the Kiminari, during the beginning years of documentation, was known as Cavkar. However several hundred years later, the leader held the same description and name – Cavkar. This has led to the theory that the leader is somehow sustaining his life, and, according to one eye-witness, is doing this through some sort of ritual burial inside a hidden chamber. Of course, the location of this 'chamber' is unknown, as is the theory's integrity.**_

**_The Kiminari's ultimate goal is to ride the world of magic; this is confirmed by the Kiminari transcript that was recovered after a raid in a temple in Japan. Though it is unclear how they plan to do this, the ancient transcript states, very clearly, that they need the 'Elder' to achieve this. A process that takes several years to complete._**

_**Sightings of the Kiminari have been reduced to mere myths and hoaxes, and so, it is most likely that the dangerous race are now, thankfully, extinct.**_

Minerva McGonagall was not one to cry. In fact, she was not one to display any emotion whatsoever, apart from anger or despair at not achieving grades expected. Her Uncle always said that displays of emotion were 'a guilt mechanism employed by women to get what they want' Yet here she was, her shuddering body racked with emotion. The grief was too much, the tears that had threatened to trickle down her cheeks for the past three days were coming, and there was nothing she could do about it. And so, within the privacy of her dorm, she let go. She allowed herself to grieve, to cry. The tears came thick and fast, falling from her shaking face and splashing down against her black robes, as she leaned on the window for support. The deserted room was filled with the cries of pain that escaped the grieving woman, and alone, she sobbed. Grieving the loss of a teacher, a mentor and most importantly a friend.

And all because of one silly question.

Who are the Kiminari?

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_Present Day, Hogwarts_

Minerva McGonagall stared at the Asian-looking man that stood above her. His eyes were wide, and although Minerva knew she was slightly concussed, she was positive his glowing yellow light emanating from them were not a figment of her imagination. His shiny-white teeth leered at her as he chuckled while brushing of the dust that clung to his black robe. Apparently, he hated being dirty just as much as Minerva did. Biting down on her blood soaked lip, she concentrated the abysmal amount of energy left within her on keeping her spasming body from shaking. She, Minerva McGonagall, was not going to die like some kind of whimpering fool, not even strong enough to control her body. She would not give the man the satisfaction. The man slowly started to raise his arms as crackles of yellow energy sparked around them. Minerva's body, just like Filch's, began to rise slowly in the air, her arms and neck drooping painfully. Minerva could do nothing, not even move, instead, she struggled to conceal the searing pain shooting through her immobilized body, and strived to maintain her eye contact with the man, she wanted to watch her murderer as she died. The yellow energy began to swirl with increasing speed, the crackles becoming louder and more frequent. In the distance both Albus Dumbledore and Remus Lupin were calling her name, pleading for her to run, but deep down they knew, as did her attacker, that it was too late. Soon enough, it was over and Minerva McGonagall's body slumped to the floor, her eyes white and glazed. Her usually thin mouth was wide open, a small trickle of blood steadily making its way down her pale face. The spasming of her body slowly subsided as did the painful cries of those who had witnessed her demise. And so, another body joined those who had already accepted their fate, albeit proudly, and, the attacker began to move on to his next victim.

Yes.

Knowledge is power, it is undeniable.

Yet sometimes this power eludes us, hides itself, resurfacing its ugly head when its use is no longer necessary. This is especially true with one such brave woman, who even when facing death, could still, not recall the identity of her attackers. For as her assailant turned to move onto the severely injured Remus Lupin, he was muttering something, as were his comrades, something that may well have jogged Minerva's memory.

"6, 12, 88, 94, 59, 3…6, 12, 88, 94, 59, 3…6, 12, 88, 94, 59, 3…"

* * *

**Don't worry I know what you're thinking, and no, I haven't killed off all the characters right at the start, that just wouldn't be clever would it? Everything will make more sense next chapter!**

**Please Review, thank you so much!**


	5. Recovery

**!Suggested Recap! **On August 2nd 1996, Harry James Potter is captured by the designated Auror team and taken into Ministry custody for questioning, after being missing for several years. It is not known how or why he left, if voluntarily. Where he's been or what he's been doing. He is examined and taken to Dumbledore for a private audience, while the Minister, seedy as ever, is in the third secret meeting of the month, fretting about the resurfacing of The Boy Who Lived. The meeting between Dumbledore and Harry goes smoothly, with questions flying about the room at an alarming rate, though most, if not all, are not answered. He is informed of the Prophecy, and as they speculate over the theft of the Pentagrams, the Minister heads to Knockturn Alley, and hands over a small yellow bag to a man with a thunderbolt tattoo sprawled across the side of his face, the man replying 'he will be dealt with'. Harry has his wand retuned to him before he retires to bed for a much needed rest. Dobby then makes a sudden appearance and returns a small twinkling necklace to Harry. The next day Harry awakes to find the Great Hall is under attack by tattooed men…

**!To those of you who're confused!** Please just read and enjoy it. If you try to make sense of everything I'm more than certain that this chapter will be more of a headache than an enjoyable read. Everything will be tied up and answered, just enjoy the ride!

**!Note!** I am well aware of Hogwarts: A History, and the rules that surround the school, and of the characters I have placed into the chapter. As always, there is a reason! Also I would like to point out (in reference to a message I have received, and a few reviews) that the sources by which my ideas are drawn come from numerous places, such as films, books, video games, television, and of course, my own little old brain!

**!Author! **Happy Fingers

**The Boy Who Fled**

**Chapter 5: Recovery**

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"_-I think it's safe to say that where Harry's concerned, security is something of a misnomer, and as for dark wizards, magics and let us say, ambiguous actions, it is fair to mention the fact that he could well be working against us" Snape cut in sharply."_

**xxxxxxxxxx**

The doors to the Great Hall burst open with such force that those who remained on their feet were subsequently knocked to the ground, the powerful wave of energy zooming past them and smashing all the remaining windows with a deafening crash. The shards of glass that flew through the air narrowly missed those that were still fighting, and spread the soft particles of summer sunshine around the hall in a sea of color. Remus Lupin, Albus Dumbledore and Alastor Moody all fell to the floor, their feet whipping out from beneath them as their bodies thumped painfully against the scorched cement, the vibrations rippling through their bones as the heat emanating from the blast skimmed their bodies rapidly towards those it was intended for. The three tattooed men had also not managed to throw off the force of the blast, and they too, had been forced to the floor, the static rushing over them and causing their short black hairs to stand on end. As a result of the particularly powerful energy wave, the doors hung pathetically on their damaged hinges, clanging against the concrete walls behind them, with the ever increasing threat of falling off completely.

Dumbledore, the first to recover, struggled to sit up, seeking out the source of the unusually powerful energy blast, while carefully brushing of the jagged pieces of window that had torn at his usually immaculate blue robes of and to the floor. Albus had studied magic extensively, some might say religiously, seeking out answers to questions most wouldn't even comprehend. However the magic that had just rushed past him was like nothing he'd ever felt before, and in his experience, most things that Dumbledore had never come across, were usually unpleasant, in a various number of horrible, horrible ways. However it didn't take long to find the source of the blast, who was incidentally standing in the centre of the doorway, crackling green energy swirling around his body and snapping loudly, as sparks flashed behind him menacingly.

Harry James Potter.

And he didn't look pleased.

The three tattooed men had recovered, immediately jumping to their feet with a complex, yet extremely precise manner, each doing so in unison. Harry was now striding towards them, his gaze scanning the bodies that littered the floor, and the three that were left standing. Throughout his years Harry had learnt that scanning the room for possible exits, casualties and any sign of anything that could help in a coming battle, was a vital skill, and Harry had adopted it with such intensity that to him, it was like breathing. A rough wind began to course through the air, rushing in through the smashed windows and swirling around the now severely damaged room, bringing leaves from the weakening trees outside.

A few feet away Lupin coughed and spluttered as he attempted to sit up, clutching onto the quivering hand of Albus Dumbledore. The cut on the side of his face was artificial, but still throbbed with pain as Lupin winced, trying to speak.

"Don't-!" he started, holding out a badly bleeding hand towards Harry.

Though he couldn't be heard, for the wind that was circling the room was harsh and loud, whistling around the room at such volume, that although Lupin and Dumbledore could see Harry was talking to the three men, they couldn't hear what they were saying. Something Dumbledore was not thoroughly pleased about.

"There you are…" one of them leered, his eyes glowing a fierce yellow, as the two men either side of him exchanged significant glances.

Harry didn't respond, instead, the energy waves seeping from him seemed to increase as the snapping sound grew louder, together with the speed of the wind rushing in and around the hall.

"I was beginning to think you weren't here" the man drawled, well aware that the two men behind him were now helping the final man to stand. Harry too seemed to be aware of this, yet he made no move to attack.

"So…have you told them yet?" he continued, smiling mischievously.

They all stood deathly still now, each of them waiting for the first move to be made. Harry adjusted his grip on his wand, red energy snapping out the end of it. He scanned the three men for any sign of weakness, anything he could use to his advantage.

Nothing.

"Get the others out of the Hall" Dumbledore said to the injured Lupin, his eyes no longer twinkling.

Lupin moved to argue, but Dumbledore met his eyes and Lupin knew that Dumbledore was not to be swayed. Yet that didn't stop Lupin from feeling a pang of anger. He, of all people, should stay with Harry. However there was no time to argue, as Dumbledore and Moody began to walk towards Harry and the men.

"Haha…you haven't have you…? Oh, what are they going to say when-?" the tattooed said sarcastically, his two comrades leering triumphantly.

But he couldn't finish, for the young man he was talking to suddenly disappeared from view with a wisp of black mist, and rapidly re-appeared silently behind them. With a complex swish of Harry's wand, the three men were forced into the air in separate directions. Two of them, hit the wall with a satisfying thump, each of them grunting in pain. The man in the middle, who seemed to be the leader, flew backwards towards the entrance of the Hall. He however landed squarely on his feet. Harry charged forward, while Albus and Moody split up to attack the other two.

A barrage of spells soon began to fly around the hall, the once green leaves that flew around the air sharply turning a crisp black, crumpling to the floor as black ash, and scorching flames. From the end of Harry's wand, a green whip was conjured, and was clasped around his assailant's ankle. Harry then tripped him up and flew him into the air, and proceeded to throw a deadly assortment of curses towards him as he fell to the floor.

Lupin was slowly levitating the bodies towards the entrance of the hall; however his injured stomach and head were obviously far more painful than he was letting on. The several bodies were now floating behind Lupin as he made his way out of the Hall, tripping and stumbling on the debris that covered it. The beads of sweat that were trickling down his forehead were now seeping into his cuts, making him fee, if it were possible, even worse than before. A blinding white flash filled the hall that caused its occupants to shield their eyes from the blinding brightness. As it slowly faded, the man Harry was dueling with dropped dead to the floor with a slump. However Harry did not linger over his triumph, and as he turned to run to the struggling Moody's aid, Lupin caught his eye. For the first time in 16 years Lupin had once again seen the shadow of his two best friends, and his heart gave another leap, and with one final stare towards the battle, left the Great Hall, his fallen comrades floating behind him.

As Harry reached his target Moody slumped to the floor, his leg giving way, as Harry flung a barrage of spells at the tattooed man. After ducking under a shot of energy, Harry finally managed to hit his target, a loud crackle, like a firecracker, filling the hall as his attackers eyes widened in shock at being hit squarely in the chest. Slowly he fell to the ground, momentarily disorientated. Harry took this chance and leapt forward towards him, grasping his head between his hands. And with a sickening snap, broke his neck, his lifeless body slumping to the floor.

Dumbledore watched with a mixture of shock, horror and awe as Harry ran towards him, ready to help him fight his assailant. The magic he was performing befuddled even Dumbledore and he had managed to defeat two of the attackers single handedly, a feat, even Dumbledore himself was having trouble achieving.

It was two on one now, and Dumbledore and Harry were fighting side by side against the final tattooed man. A barrage of spells, curses, and jinxes flew around the hall, with black wisps of mists appearing in the air as Harry disappeared and re-appeared. The two were exhausted, both physically and mentally, as they pushed to defeat the incredibly strong man. However as the two fought, they were both unaware that from the damaged entrance to the Hall, a Silver haired man was running towards them.

"Harry!" he bellowed, ducking under a golden burst of energy.

Harry who had just dodged a particularly powerful spell was momentarily distracted by the call of his name, and as a result, was knocked of his feet and sent flying through the air. Upon his landing he watched as his old friend and Dumbledore fought the final tattooed man, but soon enough the darkness claimed him, and he too, joined the several other unconscious bodies that littered the Great Hall…

**xxxxxxxxxxxx**

Harry awoke with such a start, that the small frail chair he was tied to clanged violently, struggling under the immense strain forced down upon it. It was dark, though the empty room had rebelliously grabbed hold of the light that was so obviously artificially cut off, and had created a sense of an eerie presence circling the air. The little rooms refusal to surrender this light to the control of whom owned it had allowed Harry the luxury of clearly identifying the Magi-Rope tied across his waist and legs. He was fully clothed (something he was thoroughly relieved to see) and while he would have liked to have been somewhere altogether different, this particular situation was not at all intimidating to Harry, who, on numerous occasions, had been tied down by Magi-Rope in a dark, dank room and questioned excessively, or on the off chance, tortured (though admittedly those instances were few and far between). Closing his eyes Harry reached out with his mind, probing his surroundings for any presence, human or not.

Nothing.

Harry sighed, his wand was nowhere near him, nor anyone else for that matter. There were no magical presences anywhere, or any ordinary ones, he was completely alone.

Wherever he was, it was most certainly cut off, something that would make Harry's escape far more complex than usual, and so, he strained his ears, hoping that they, unlike his sight, would provide perhaps more of an insight into where he was or how he could escape.

The irritating continual dripping sound that echoed around the room, and presumably the corridor outside it, was soon overshadowed by that of approaching footsteps. Three people to be exact, accompanied by sharp, murmured mutterings and rather audible scoffing at whatever was being said. Harry gave a hopeful tug to the rope tightly wound around his wrists in the vain hope that some imbecile had somehow tied it incorrectly. But even as it twitched uncomfortably against his cold skin he knew that, unlike in a Muggle film or book, there was no such imbecile in real life, and especially not when it came to being tied to a chair with no memory of how or when he arrived there.

The memory of the fight at the Great Hall had suddenly filled his mind, as if some flood gates had opened and the situation had dawned on him.

Had they lost?

The arrival of his old friend, comrade and part-time mentor had surprised Harry to say the least. For his last sighting of the silver haired vampire had been in Romania, and due to the chaos that had ensued upon that particular meeting, Harry had sincerely doubted he would ever see him again. His chest tightened as the recollection of being hit squarely in the chest filled his mind in conjunction with the throbbing thumps that had begun at the back of his skull.

A sharp click filled whistled through the room as a rush of cold air began to flow into the little box, causing Harry's hairs to stand on end. With another click the wind fell, and was replaced by the rather worrying noise of heavy, raspy breathing. Harry's heart began to thump, true, he had been in worse situations than this, yet something felt off. Wrong somehow. He didn't have his wand, his friends weren't with him, and he sincerely doubted he'd be this unprepared if he was on an assignment. Harry forced himself to relax, as his mind stretched out towards the person behind him, however all he met was a wall of blackness, yet as he sensed the presence of two other people in the room he still could not penetrate their minds.

Were they Human?

Since his training in Tibet, Harry had only met a handful of people who could shield themselves from his Legilimency, and his technique was something of legend throughout the Tibetan hills.

One of the men walked around Harry and stood in front of him, watching him with a look of disgust. After a while, Harry brought his gaze to meet the suited man, and couldn't help but let out a chuckle at the pitiful performance the man was providing. To most people, the man that stood before him was like a rock, a cold hard wall of nothing. But to Harry he was a nervous wreck, employed by someone to look strong, and if they were lucky, intimidating. Yet Harry could clearly see the small twitch that flicked gently beneath his left ear and through guesswork alone could tell that beneath his polished black shoes lay ten quivering toes, itching to leave the company of the young prisoner that was tied up in front of them.

"Are you Harry James Potter?" The man asked, careful to maintain his aggressive manner.

Harry said nothing, choosing to stare at the man with a frown.

"Are you Harry James Potter?" he asked again, watching him.

This process went on for several minutes, and even Harry, who had liked to think of himself as somewhat patient was now tired, the slither of amusement that had tickled within him now wearing dangerously thin. Yet the man continued, and as he was halfway through his 47th time of saying

"Are you Harry James Potter?" he was interrupted by another click of the door.

Harry strained his ears to listen to the murmurs that were being exchanged before a blinding white pain seared at the back of his head. Harry bit down on his lip hard to stop him from yelling, and forced the large purple dots in his vision to dispel themselves. The Magi-Rope tied around him snapped and crackled in reaction to the magics bursting from Harry's body, yet they held still. The person that came to stand before Harry this time was someone altogether different than the terrified man before.

For starters she was a woman, secondly she wasn't even in the least bit frightened of the sixteen year old, and thirdly her name was Frelua Pimmelfry, private nurse of Rufus Scrimgeour and professional interrogator for the Minister's inquisitorial squad. Harry scowled at the woman he had seen only a couple of days ago and couldn't help but feel the tingle in his spine at the thought of what was undoubtedly coming.

"Hello again" she whistled coyly, shaking the black briefcase she was holding slightly, as if to welcome any guesses as to what was inside it.

"Rufus not brave enough to come himself?" Harry asked, the aggression rolling of his tongue in such force that Harry could've sworn the two guards behind him had shuffled backwards.

Pimmelfry laughed, her high pitched shrieks ringing through Harry's ears, she withdrew her long black wand and with a flick conjured a seat. She then opened her briefcase which sprung open and forged into a wide, white table, and atop it were several ambiguous silver objects that seemed to cause an endless amount of happiness to sprout within the rather psychedelic woman. With another flick, the t-shirt Harry was wearing ripped open, revealing his muscled, scarred chest. Harry forced himself not to move or even struggle, and instead watched the nurse, awaiting his answer. Pimmelfry sat down in her chair, and picked up one of the silver objects that looked something like scissors, and twiddled them in her hands, with a fondness one would resemble with a pet of some sort. Her eyes scanned the boy's naked chest and she sighed deeply, while a small thin smile crept along her face.

"The Minister will not be joining us no, though he sends his regards" Pimmeflry answered smiling while cocking her head to one side.

"Now Mr Potter I'm sure you'll understand why we're all here. The process will be over in a few painful moments. You broke the deal, and as I'm sure you're aware, the Minister cannot afford for you to be informing the Order of your…past…with him. And so, I will be removing your memories manually. Something I pride myself in performing both efficiently and accurately. Though I won't lie. It will be painful."

Harry scowled at the woman as another bound of energy crackled of the Magi-Rope.

"You think I'll forget Azkaban?" Harry sneered, one eyebrow raised so high, that it rivaled the more than obvious fake ones drawn across the ugly woman's face.

Harry's skin instinctively tensed as he prepared himself, this was something he would have to repay the Minister for…again.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Albus Dumbledore strode down the hallway towards the polished black door at the end at such speed, that the blue robe that was bellowing behind him struggled to keep up, flapping back and forth. Upon waking up at St Mungo's he was relieved to hear the Minister informing him that they had Harry Potter, and he was safe and well. As he approached the guarded door, the two men that stood there both held out their hands.

"I'm sorry sir, but you can't enter just now"

Dumbledore smiled at the man, though a soft chill was emanating from him. The two men flinched slightly as Dumbledore brought one hand up to stroke his majestic beard, the shiny blue material glimmering in the harsh light of the hospital.

"I'm sorry, why would that be?" he asked politely, gazing intently at the guard that had spoken.

"He's being questioned, over the attack" the man replied, briskly, as if he knew full well that Dumbledore would not have liked his answer.

Dumbledore nodded slowly. True they had definitely come for Harry, but it seemed very unlikely they were working together. Harry had fought side by side with the Order, he had killed two of the attackers.

"So this is a formal interview I presume? May I remind you he is sill a minor, whatever he may tell you. Is there someone there to defend Harry's interests?" Dumbledore asked, smiling as ever.

"Err…w-well…err…no sir…" the other guard stumbled, glancing at his counterpart, hoping for some sort of support. He had none.e had none.He

"Well then, I shall assume the role for the time being then. Excuse me" and without another glance pushed past the guards and into the room.

In the centre of the room lay a large white bed, and its occupant lay angrily glaring at the two ministry officials that sat at the end of his bed. Each of them looked up at Dumbledore's sudden entrance. Harry displayed no emotion other than exasperation, the young woman with a clipboard looked like a Hare caught in headlights and the other woman, looked (for politeness, let's just say) extremely annoyed.

Dolores Umbridge knew full well that the interview was over, and she abruptly rose from her chair, not bothering to pick up her quill that fell to the floor.

"Dolores" Dumbledore sighed, though Harry could've sworn it was more of a grimace.

"Albus" Dolores drawled, and without another word, glance, or even the slightest sigh, walked straight past him and out the door, her frail little assistant whimpering in tow.

The door behind them slammed quickly, and the small square window beside it shook slightly.

Dumbledore smiled quickly before taking a seat beside Harry, smoothing down his blue robes, while staring towards the corner of the room.

"And how are we today?" he asked Harry, his eyes twinkling as he did so.

"I'm fine." Harry said abruptly, with a mere flick of glance in Dumbledore's direction.

His body was smothered by the thick white duvet, and his naked chest bore a large red mark in the centre.

"I assume the Ministry believes you are to blame for the attack this morning" Dumbledore asked, easing his blackened hand back into his sleeve, and hoisting his spectacles farther up his crooked nose.

Harry nodded, smiling as his eyes flicked to the corner of the room and back.

"Hmm. Yes well, that's to be expected…Were you?" Dumbledore asked, watching Harry intently.

Harry was now out of bed and getting dressed, wincing in pain as he reached for his t-shirt.

"What? No, I wasn't" Harry said angrily.

"Yes I should think so. Though I'm afraid to say we may never find out who sent them." Dumbledore said solemnly.

"How'd you know they were sent?" Harry said, looking at Dumbledore with a frown.

"Come now Harry. I may be old but I'm certainly not a fool. And if my suspicions are correct, then the Kiminari at full strength is something that is far more important, not to mention dangerous, than who sent them"

Harry did not respond to this, instead he continued to search around for his final sock, though for the life of him he couldn't find it. After a while Dumbledore spoke again, though what he said caused Harry to laugh out loud.

"Are you going to let you're friend hide in the corner all day Harry?"

Harry smiled at Dumbledore and shook his head slightly; he knew Dumbledore was going to be well aware that his friend was in the corner, though to be fair, he had put up a good show of ignorance.

"Kayshaii, you can come out" he said, more with amusement than exasperation.

On cue, the silver haired vampire appeared in the corner of the room, pulling the invisibility cloak from his head, while watching Dumbledore as if he were a large steak.

"Hello again" Dumbledore smiled at him, though he had not risen from his seat.

Kayshaii nodded back, without a word.

"I assume you're well aware that if anyone sees you here, you will be killed" Dumbledore said calmly, not looking at Harry who looked as if he was about to curse him.

"I'm not leaving. I have told you why I'm here, and I shall remain until my mission is complete" he finally said, his Romanian accent crisp and fresh.

"Well I suggest we all leave, I can take you to the Order's Headquaters, you'll be safe there" Dumbledore answered.

Harry watched Dumbledore for a moment, as if contemplating what to do.

"Fine" Harry nodded to Dumbledore.

"Kayshaii we're done-" Harry said firmly but was interrupted.

"I will not leave until my mission is complete, I will watch you from afar, if it is what you want" he finished.

"I want you to go back to the Suveran, I don't need you here" Harry said, ignoring the fascinated look upon Dumbledore's face.

"I have told you my plans Master Potter, there is no space for disagreement"

Eveidently the conversation was over as he put the cloak on, disappearing.

"Then we shall leave" Dumbledore said finally, and the three walked out of St Mungo's, each of them ready for another attack.

**xxxxxxxxxxxx**

Albus Dumbledore's office had seen many a things in its lifetime, being the Headmasters office, it had the privileges of witnessing secret discussions between the Headmaster of the time and any number of his or her associates. It was lucky enough to feel the benefits of the roaring fire and the soothing cry of the Pheonix that resided there, and had the good fortune to watch as an endless supply of guilty students that were forced to sit opposite the large oak desk and pay penance for their wrong doing. And sometimes, although rarely, it was even given the right to bear witness to discussions, which not even members of the Order were aware of.

Today, was one such occasion.

The Battle at the Great Hall was now public knowledge, though for safety, there was no mention of three tattooed assassins or the fact that Harry Potter had taken part, and fought with (what was presumed to be) illegal magic and had talked to them for a minute at least. Several members of the Order were being treated for severe wounds while two others remained in what the Healers called, 'a comatosed state'. Argus Filch and Minerva McGonagall had still not woken up, or shown any signs of life, despite the fact that 1 Muggle Doctor, 4 Healers, and an Iranian Herbalist all had agreed that while they were most definitely still alive, though they could see no possible explanation for their medical condition, and as Dumbledore was not yet willing to divulge any information that it may have indeed been the Kiminari, they still lay at the Hospital.

Remus Lupin, Albus Dumbledore, Alastor Moody and Severus Snape were all stood in the small office, each contemplating the sea of questions that were floating around them. Snape, who was lucky enough to be on an assignment for the Order when Hogwarts was under attack, was the only one in the room who did not display any battle scars, and as such, was the only one able enough to pace the office back and forth.

"He was Apparating Proffessor, there seems to be no doubt about that, though that does not dispel the fact that he was **talking** to them, which I think is something we should address" the potions master drawled, his hands folded behind his back.

Dumbledore contemplated this for a moment, nodding slightly. His blackened hand lay limp on the desk in front of him, while his other hand, tapped gently against his armrest.

"Yes but how…the security in place shouldn't allow that, an just cus he was talking to em doesn't mea-" Moody said loudly, waving his wooden stick around as if he'd had too much to drink.

"-I think it's safe to say that where Harry's concerned, security is something of a misnomer, and as for dark wizards, magics and let us say, ambiguous actions, it is fair to mention the fact that he could well be working against us" Snape cut in sharply.

Severus and Moody had both made a fuss of the fact that despite the endless amount of security measures place around the school Harry was able to Apparate. If you could call it that.

Lupin however, had stayed quiet, staring into the fire, allowing the warm blanket of heat to brush across his pale face, casing it to flush a pleasant pink. Dumbledore, who had been well aware of this, turned his attention towards the man.

"Remus, what are you're thoughts on the matter" he asked softly, well aware that the man held with him an extraordinary amount of guilt over the mornings events.

The Werewolf breathed in deeply, and let out a long slow sigh, as if on the off chance, the heavy guilt residing within him may fall out. Lupin had been delighted to hear of Harry's discovery. He was his last contact to his parents, and felt a sense of duty towards the boy. That morning, Lupin had been a nervous wreck, waiting for Harry to enter the Great Hall, preparing himself to see James' and Lily's' son. Yet the attack had spoiled everything, and had, in more ways than one, created far more questions to pile up on the already increasing list.

"I think we should worry less about Harry and more about the Vampire" he said finally, his body deathly still.

The three men listening each exchanged glances that were immediately understandable. It was well known that Lupin had a particular dislike of their race, especially so when one is 'guarding' the Boy Who Lived. Lupin had not reacted well to Dumbledore informing them of the Romanian Vampire's presence, yet, all of them, spare Lupin, had accepted this snippet of information and moved on. Lupin however, found the prospect of a vampire to be somewhat confusing, not to mention dangerous.

"He seems to be no threat as of yet" Dumbledore replied, careful to keep his voice even.

"And the Kiminari. What're we gonna do bout them?" Moody said, obviously the Vampire held no significance with the famous Auror, and he had been pushing Dmbledore for any information on them since the attack.

The crackles of the fire filled the room, as each the men pondered for a few moments, however it was Snape that spoke first.

"I think that Mr Potter holds the key to that particular pathway, don't you agree? We need to find out where he's been, what he's been doing and how he has learnt the magic he was performing. Only then may we get some answers as to why the Kiminari are here. If it is really them at all." Snape said definitively, his gaze resting finally on Dumbledore for approval.

"I agree, they were there for Harry, that much seems clear." Dumbledore replied slowly.

As the crackles of the fire once again rose up through the lingering silence, each of the men within the office returned to their thoughts.

Each held their own questions, and some held answers, though as always with war, secrets have to be kept, for some secrets are not yet ready to be heard…

**xxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Tom Marvelo Riddle was as relaxed as any Dark Lord could be. So far, it seemed no one was aware that the Queen was under his control, and it would be several days before the world would find out that the Muggle Prime Minister was indeed dead, not as it had been reported, on a secret holiday with his family (which incidentally, had confirmed the Wizarding assumption that Muggles were indeed the most gullible of all races) The Order of the Pheonix had not discovered the spies that were among them, and as far as he was aware, they had no idea what Harry Potter's sudden re-appearance meant.

To some, Voldemort laughing was something to steer clear from, for it usually meant someone was in pain. These select few, known as Death Eaters, were incredibly sensitive towards their master, and so, as the haunting laugh echoed around the small room, the three men crept backwards slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. For the three men were well aware that each of them were potentially on the verge of being the centre of their masters attention.

Something that was most definitely not a good thing.

"You've all done well. Wormtail, get back to the boy, and keep your filthy little nose clean" Voldmeort hissed, his snake like eyes glaring at the little man venomously.

"And you-" he hissed, turning his attention on the hooded figure that stood there.

"Do nothing. We shall wait, patience is a virtue…" He leered.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Number 9 Grimmauld Place had been the centre of operations for the Order of the Pheonix for the past six years. Its walls, ceilings, and numerous (painfully loud) paintings could tell a lifetime of tales as to the happenings inside the grim looking habitat. Though the ancient building actually belonged to Sirius Black, a known Death Eater, the Order had been offered the house the instant Voldemort's return was suspected. The kind fellow that had performed this generous deed had not shown himself, and Dumbledore doubted he ever would. For all they received was a letter, though this was no ordinary letter.

Harry Potter was well aware of the Incorruptus Parchment, for he had made a few of them himself, he was also aware that Number 9 Grimmauld Place was the Order's Headquaters because, unbeknownst to most, he had been there twice before. Yet as Dumbledore explained that they were given the house by an unknown entity, Harry began to worry.

Something didn't make sense, despite the obvious reasons...

Sirius Black, a Death Eater, owned the property. That much was certain. Though Harry was positive Sirius Black would definitely not give up his house to his sworn enemies, and through magical contracts, no one else could, but him. This was problem number one. Secondly, though only Harry seemed to catch onto this, the Incorruptus needed the approval of the Elf. To most this would only mean one Elves, to the informed it meant the race as a whole. The Incorruptus could only be performed if no elf, anywhere in the entire world, would oppose it. This might seem trivial, yet it is the rules of their kind, and it is abided by rigidly. And there was definitely one or two house Elves that would have a problem binding Sirius Black's promise.

For Harry had met them, and was even friends with one of them.

So, by magical law, only Sirius Black could offer up Grimmauld Place to the Order, yet Sirius Black would not be able to perform the Incorruptus Parchment ritual for at least two house Elves would protest.

So who had given them the Headquaters?

And why would Dumbledore be so trusting, did he know more than he was letting on?

So as Harry sat in the small bedroom on the top floor of Number 9 Grimmauld Place, he could not help but worry at the suspiciousness of the situation .There was more to this than meets the eye…

That night, Harry sat at the end of the fluffy bed, pondering the situation he was now in. He didn't feel safe, the house he was sat in (if you could call it that) was not safe.

Could it be a trap?

A way to lure him in?

Dumbledore couldn't possibly trust an unknown bit of parchment, that happened to claim that Voldemort wasn't watching, listening to their every move. He wasn't that stupid, was he?

The usual restlessness that bustled within Harry began, like clockwork, to rise within him, as the light outside began to fade, giving way to the evening. The Headache that had been troubling him since St Mungo's started to pound as Harry's thought's drifted to his friends. He missed them. He thought of Kayshaii, and smiled at the though of him.

From under the bed he pulled out his brown rucksack and tipped it out onto the bed, rummaging through the numerous items that now were in a muddled pile. He fondly picked up the small square bit of parchment. Though it was blank, Harry knew what was hidden within it. He had memorized it. He then examined the photo. In it was a small skinny, black haired boy. He had a thin lightening bolt tattoo across his pale forehead, and large baggy clothes that hung of him like a coat hanger. Next to him was an old man, with a disgustingly dirty white vest on. He was a large man, but looked jolly, draping an arm around the two young men either side of him. On the other side of the man was a blonde haired boy, tall, muscled and tanned. He looked proud, confident, everything the boy one the left was not. Harry's muscles tensed as he quickly put the picture back in his bag, along with the parchment.

The young Harry Potter in that photo looked nothing like the one sitting there now. The pale white skin had been traded for dark, battle torn skin. His skinny, frail physique had been swapped for a large, muscled one. And the messy, jet black hair was exchanged for spiky well kept hair, though the color was still (to Harry's dismay) still the same.

As Harry moved on to examine his Invisibility Cloak a small rustle at the door could be heard, Harry flicked his wand towards the door.

"I was wondering when you'd show you're ugly face" he snarled.

Over the past three days Harry had been angry numerous times, he had seen and talked to people he resented so much, he had vowed he would never give them the time of day. Yet the person that stood before him conjured up more hate, more feelings of betrayal, and anger than Harry had felt in a long time.

"Hello Harry" he said, smiling, carefully closing the door behind him.

He softly removed his cloak to reveal his freckled face and red hair, and couldn't help but smile at his old friend.

Harry had expected him to come, he knew he would. Though he hadn't seen him in nearly two years, he knew that Charlie Weasley still, after all this time, still felt guilty. Though Harry, ever the gentleman, would never accept his apology, he would die unforgiving, for that is what he deserved.

"What d'you want" Harry asked, putting his belongings back into his rucksack, as though they, not Charlie, had betrayed him.

Charlie inched forward, wand ready in his hand.

"Look. Harry, you have every right to be angry with me-" Charlie started.

"-Damn right I do" Harry cut in

"-but I just came to tell you…to tell you that I'm sorry. For everything. I don't expect you to forgive me for what happened. Hell, I don't even forgive myself. What happened in Siberia shouldn't have happened, to anyone. Least of all you, but you have to understand, I had no choice. If I didn't leave-" Charlie said, speaking fast, so as to not let Harry cut in. He failed.

"-You had a choice Charlie." Harry said through gritted teeth.

"Harry, if I didn't go, the Association would've!-"

"-No! No Charlie you don't get to play the victim card!" Harry was now standing from his bed facing Charlie.

"You weren't the one left there. What about you're friends? Me, Dobby, Luca, Sophie! You left without a second glance. Sophie's dead, and it's because of you!" Harry was now shouting, restraining himself from killing Charlie right there and then.

Charlie just stood shaking his head, his eyes flushed with water.

"I-I don't-" he started.

Harry strode towards him, so their faces were mere inches apart and snarled

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you where you stand"

The two were in silence, staring at each other. One with sorrow and guilt, and the other with seething anger.

"I came to tell you how sorry I am, and to give you this" Charlie handed him a square blank bit of parchment.

"They've made some amendments, Rienna's your contact now, she'll see you tomorrow at twelve." And with that he Dissaparated, leaving Harry in the empty room.

Warding his room, he moved to the bed and performed the usual ritual to read the parchment. His heart thumping with anger, and (though he didn't like to admit it) grief

**xxxxxxxxx**

Darkness is something some are afraid of, especially when accompanied by the weird and wonderful sounds that mingle within it. It dumfounds Muggles and Wizards alike with it's ability to make sounds seem far louder than they actually are, and provides an endless amount of material for tales and ghost stories to a plethora of young children, who have not yet discovered why darkness is indeed something to be scared of.

Auror Kingsley Shacklebot was someone who was most definitely not scared of the dark. Though he was certainly aware that it was to be respected, he had seen far too much blood and gore to find the prospect of darkness even remotely problematic. So as he crept through the narrow hallway of Number 4 Privet Drive, he gave no concern to the darkness that had engulfed it, instead choosing to concentrate his attention towards the undeniable stench of blood that floated unpleasantly in the air. His wand light probed through the thick blanket of black that stood defiantly before him as he ventured further down the hall to the Dursleys' kitchen, the floor beneath him creaking with each step.

The front door swung slightly in the evening air, as two of his colleagues stood watch, each of them ready to defend or attack, depending on which of the most undesirable situations occurred.

Shacklebot stopped in his tracks as the faint sound of whimpering could be heard from ahead of him, he swiftly pointed his wand towards the sound and was stunned to see a woman. She sat rocking back and forth, her hands clutched around her shacking legs. Her tattered clothes were drenched in blood and her eyes were wide and bloodshot. Although Kingsley had never met the woman, he knew from the moment he set eyes on her who she was, and his stomach performed a brief summersault...

Petunia Dursley could hardly speak, except for the small whimpering sound that escaped her lips rhythmically, in time with her rocking body. Her eyes were fastened on the body that lay before her, and although the sight of it made her heart thump and body to scream in emotional despair she could not take her eyes of him, for if she did, that would be letting go. And letting go was something Petunia Dursley was not prepared to do.

As Shacklebot checked the small boy that lay spread eagled on the floor for life he carefully closed his open eyes, trying valiantly to shrug off the terrified look that was sprawled across his pudgy face. The husband was nowhere to be seen, and Shacklebot could waste no time in reporting this to the Minister. Slowly he turned towards the shuddering Petunia and lowered his gaze to her watering eyes.

Shacklebot had never been one for the 'touchy feely' approach, yet even as he asked the grieving mother who had murdered her son, he knew that no amount of sympathy or empathy could ease the pain and searing anger as she answered

"H-Harry…Harry P-Potter"

* * *

Okay I just had to put this out there because It took so long, thank you for sticking by me, I know this was a pain, but don't worry. Won't happen again! I'll edit any mistakes in the next few days! 


	6. Memoirs of a Particular Wizard

**!Authors Note! OK, this is now a version I'm semi-happy with. As usual I'll re-edit chapters 5 – 9 when they're completed, so after Chapter 9, it'll be made much better, but I need to start on Chapter 7 now so…**

**!Second Note! If you like this then you should try reading The Soldiers of Eden by S.J Rafael, an amazingly original concept that has been displayed in a brilliant piece of fanfiction!**

**The Boy Who Fled**

_By Happy Fingers_

**Chapter 6: Memoirs of a Particular Wizard**

**xxxxxxx**

"_It was obvious how he could be intimidating. Any agent for the Association held power, especially this one. He didn't like to gossip, nor hear it, but there were rumors flying around about this young man, rumors that caused the sweat under his arms to double in both odor and amount."_

**xxxxxxx**

_Italy – Fuimicino Airport, May 1991_

The stampeding crowd moved as one through the humid airport, with utter disregard for anyone unfortunate enough to have the need to head the opposite way. One of those was a young man, and he only growled through tightly gritted teeth as another bag whacked against his skinny left shoulder causing him to stumble back another few steps for the fifth time in the space of a minute. He was walking fast, some might say jogging, casting cautious glances behind him, checking for the suited men that had followed him since his arrival.

The loud ding of the airports' announcement system whistled through the crowd as Harry finally made it to the large main entrance, with a fleeting smile of triumph. The suited men were a few feet behind, struggling to weave in through the crowd as the much smaller boy could, and were now resorting to pushing and shoving the oblivious Muggles aside, desperate to keep an eye on their target.

As the sliding doors opened to allow his path to freedom, a wave of heat washed over him, he crossed over the busy road, dodging the hooting cars and the many, many people going about their holidays in a happy fashion. Once he'd got into the small cluster of tourist restaurants and cafes, Harry dived into a nearby alleyway, running past the boxes and bins on either side without looking back. His feet were sore, the shoes he had were worn and far too big for him, his backpack was shoved full off numerous things he thought he might need, and it was a good job too. He didn't have time to collect his suitcase when he arrived. The three men had been following him since Stansted Airport, and he knew he had to lose them on way or another, so, instead of retrieving his heavy suitcase he'd made a mad dash for the exit, he could find his suitcase later.

A sharp snap against a wall to his left told him the men were fast on his tail, and Harry instinctively held his hands over his head to protect himself for the sparks that were flying around the alley. Without stopping he continued to run, using the barrels, bins and boxes to block the path of his pursuers. However this turned out to be futile when he almost ran smack bang into a large brick wall, blocking his escape.

He was trapped.

The three men that were fast approaching ceased their fire, and stopped a few meters away from the breathless boy. One of them, presumably the leader smiled slily as he removed his sunglasses.

Harry knew he was trapped, there was no way out. He'd never be able to get what he came here for…

However any more thoughts of what he'd never achieve were immediately stifled as a young man Apparated in front of him. Well, Harry thought it was Apparating. Though from what he'd read, when a wizard Apparated there was no black mist and there was usually a large popping sound.

Before Harry could say anything, the blonde-haired boy grabbed him, and with a rush of wind and a peculiar sinking sensation in his chest he went from standing in the alley, to sitting on the floor in some small, square shaped room.

Harry jumped up defensively, not entirely sure whether he should thank the boy or run from him. Yet no matter what decision his brain had made, his body seemed to disagree, for he didn't move. Instead, he just stood, breathing heavily while watching the boy that was now closing the curtains that looked out on the street.

"Who are you?" Harry said eventually, when his lungs somehow found the oxygen to breath.

The blonde haired boy didn't turn around to answer Harry, but continued to peer out the closed curtains. He was wearing tattered rags that barely covered his bruised body. The state of his hair was no better than Harry's and his face had so much dirt on it, that Harry was sure that the boy standing before him really didn't look anything like his true self.

"Luca. Nice to meet you" he said, though Harry couldn't tell whether he was being rudely sarcastic, or sincerely polite.

Harry was confused to say the least, those men were after him, and they definitely weren't Muggles, nor working for the Ministry. Yet they didn't grab him on the plane, or at the Airport in England.

Why did they wait until now…?

"So-" Luca started, turning to face Harry "Do you wanna tell me why you've got the Association running after you?" he asked, smiling slightly, while maintaining a tight grip on his wand.

"I…I don't know, I got off the plane and I was supposed t-to meet somebody-" Harry started, unable to hide the nervousness in is voice. If this boy attacked him Harry could do nothing, the magic he could perform was basic to say the least, and without a wand, he was helpless.

"-Sophie. Yeah I know, they got her" he said grimly, rubbing his forehead, while examining his wand that was in his hand.

Harry took a moment to grasp what he'd just said.

Sophie…

"So…y-you know who I am?" Harry stuttered, because if he should run, now was the time…

"Yeah, I know who you are, and we'll still get your wand, we're just gonna have to lie low for a while…" Luca replied, glancing at the scar atop Harry's head, covered with sweat.

"Who are those people?" Harry asked, hoisting his bag further up his shoulder, trying to sound as manly as possible.

Either Luca didn't notice, or chose to ignore this odd display of masculinity as he resumed his inspection of the windows and the room they were standing in.

"The Association" Luca replied quickly, and from Harry's look of sheer confusion thought it best to say more "I guess the closest thing to them Muggle-wise is the Secret Service. Though the Association are far from serving king and country, if you get my drift…" Luca smiled, amused that The Boy Who Lived seemed to have no idea what was going on.

"A-Are they…evil?" Harry asked, embarrassed at not thinking of a better way to say it.

He clasped the only weapon he had, given to him before his departure from England. If he needed to use it, he would be ready…

"Maybe. Don't really know. Though there's a guy I know that thinks they work for the Ministry"

" The Ministry…them?" Harry asked, not sure if he really wanted to know the answer.

"Yeah that's what I thought, though I wouldn't put it past them" Luca replied, raising one eyebrow, though, with all the dirt covering his face, it may have just been him smiling.

Harry was still not sure whether to trust the boy. Sophie had never mentioned anyone else knowing of his arrival…

As Luca dived away from the window, Harry grasped the weapon in his pocket, ready to fight the blonde haired boy.

Though Luca was not attacking Harry, Luca was pushing Harry to the ground. A flash of blue light tore through the air and filled the room, spraying the two boys in a sea of shattered glass, as Harry looked up he could see Luca mouthing something to him, it took him a while to realize that his hearing had been damaged from the blast.

"OUT THE BACK!" He was pointing to a small window at the back of the room.

The two boys scrambled to their feet and made their way to the smashed window, yet as Harry climbed through it he heard Luca yelp behind him. One of the suited men had grabbed him from behind and was carrying him backwards. Harry didn't move, contemplating whether he should just leave.

He couldn't get caught.

"GO!" Luca bellowed, fighting the large man's grip, with absolutely no chance of prying free.

Harry sighed and pulled out the small round ball in his pocket. He had no idea what it would do, all he knew was that he was told to use it if in trouble, and now was as good a time as any. Acting purely on instinct he threw the small blue ball to the floor, which landed neatly by the struggling pair. After a few seconds the ball erupted in a cloud of smoke, filling the room to the brim with a thick haze of grey. Without thinking Harry ran to Luca, whacked the suited man with his bag, and then dragged Luca to the window at the back of the room. As Luca climbed through it, Harry followed, narrowly escaping the fireball that was sent in his direction from the angry agents of the Association...

**xxxxxxxxx**

_July 1994, Tossa Del Mar, Spain – 6:25pm_

The cackles of numerous Death Eaters was a sound that seemed far more frightening than even they were aware, yet Harry displayed no signs of fear, he was not about to give them the satisfaction. His naked body was tied to the wall, his legs and hands spread apart and fastened tightly by crackling magical energy. From what Harry could see through the thick stream of blood flowing over his left eye, the Death Eaters were laughing at the body that lay bloodied on the floor in front of Harry.

It was a woman, her name was Christina Black, a Muggle reporter who had taken a special interest in Harry. She had been investigating the boy for 2 years, following him everywhere he went, photographing him whenever she got the luxury of capturing a glimpse of the elusive young man.

Yet tonight, she would find out why she should've left him alone, why Harry had warned her to leave him alone.

Harry had been on an assignment to recover some evidence that would incriminate his organization in ways that would be less than fortunate, yet things had taken a turn for the worse when Christina arrived to announce her discovery that Harry was a wizard.

Yet Harry could remember no more, everything then went black and Harry had awoken, tied and gagged to a wall, with an unconscious Muggle lying before him.

"Do it Wormtail!" a cold voice hissed from the shadows.

Harry tensed as a small man stepped out from the darkness, and although un-expected, Harry couldn't help but hiss as the disgusting little man slid a knife over his wrist, causing sparkling droplets of blood to seep out and glide down the cool knife edge. Harry bit down on his already bleeding lip, as his thoughts drifted to his colleagues.

Were they captured too?

As Wormtail walked away, happily kicking the unconscious Christina on the way, Harry caught glimpse of someone mouthing something, his lips barely noticeable from the shadows enveloping his grim expression.

It was Sirius Black.

Harry tried to make eye contact with the man, to see if he could decipher what he was mouthing, yet Sirius was looking at the floor, his arms folded across his chest. Harry was aware of his link to the insane Sirius Black, it was because of Harry that he was free, yet he still didn't expect anything from him. He knew he was framed by Wormtail, he knew that he was his godson, but all Harry felt towards him was discontent.

Harry suddenly felt the slippery world of darkness claiming him, and with another final glance at Sirius, and the woman that was almost certainly dead because of him, he fell unconscious, while his wrist seeped thick crimson red.

**xxxxxxx**

_Somewhere in Italy, May 1991_

Alberto Gianni had served the wizarding population for as long as he could remember, supplying unregistered wands to the good, the bad, and the somewhat questionable individuals that happened to have found his shop on their travels.

Gianni's was hidden deep within the maze of back alleys and streets within Rome, protected by numerous magical enchantments and items, as a means of thanks by those he had provided for. His shop, like most other wizarding stores within the busy city, looked like nothing but a run-down failure, closed off to the public for safety, and hidden away to conceal the extreme power held within it .

Despite being a Muggle, Alberto was an expert at his craft, employing techniques even the brightest of wizards could not fathom. His wands, unlike most within Europe, were not registered with the Ministry of Magic, and had the added bonus of customizable appearances.

Though despite the fact that Alberto had met both the greatest of good, and the rock-bottom of bad, nothing shocked him as much as when Harry James Potter, otherwise known as the Boy Who Lived walked in through his dirty, sodden door.

"Good afternoon!" Gianni cheered loudly, apparently unaware that the young eleven year old standing before him could not understand a word of Italian.

Along with his renown for the service he provided, was also a wide realization that Alberto was a friendly man, sometimes dangerously friendly. He had no care for legalities, war or whether or not his customer happened to be 'good' or 'bad'. No, Alberto was one to act first and never ask questions. It was a way of life.

Unlike in the books, and documentaries, Harry Potter looked like anything but a hero. His clothes were torn and dirty, with what was unmistakable scorch marks spiraling up one side of them. His glasses were dirtied, and sported great cracks in each circle, distorting the boy's emerald green eyes, and illuminating the numerous cuts that had ruined his young face. He said nothing, and merely looked at the man with a glare no eleven year old should posses.

Next to him was an old friend of Alberto's, a young man by the name of Luca. Luca was something of a local legend (though some might say curse) A local thief, vagabond, hero and general problem solver, Luca had serviced several of Alberto's not-so-legal needs to great effect. Though the several marks, burns and gashes that covered the 14 year old boys' body had little effect on Alberto, for those marks were a usual sight on the young man.

"Luca! How've you been?" He asked, never removing his gaze from the disheveled young boy beside him, while rubbing his oil-stained hands down his oil-stained vest.He had rumors of the boy's arrival, and knew exactly why they were there, yet that didn't stop him from being polite.

"Good, good!" Luca replied happily, casting a glance over his shoulder and out the door to the street.

"This is Harry. He needs a wand" Luca stated matter-of-factly, apparently not having time for the small talk he usually participated in.

"Oh he does, does he?" Alberto chuckled, moving from behind his large counter and disappearing amongst the stacks of shelves behind it.

"Yeah. And quickly, we have a few people who seem to have taken an interest in Harry, if you get my drift" Luca said, louder this time, projecting his voice to the stacks the fat Italian man had disappeared into, as he draped an arm round Harry protectively.

Alberto froze for a few moments as he reached the small black box he had set aside, he had suspicions that they'd be after Harry, but he was certainly surprised to hear them trying so soon…

Harry continued to stay silent and motionless, staring at his feet through the broken spectacles. Eventually Alberto emerged from the darkness, watching Luca with a scowl, while automatically glancing quickly outside.

"Be careful now. Harry doesn't have to work for anyone if he doesn't want to" he said warningly, eyeing Luca with an intimidating glare.

Luca merely scowled at the older man.

"Of course not, but you should see this guy in action man, frickin amazing, beside they want him anyway, no doubt he'll get in" Luca smiled, pointing at Harry as though he was some sort of museum exhibit.

Alberto scoffed loudly, placed the small black box in his hand on the counter, and moved in front of Harry, crouching down to his eye level.

"Is this true young man? Do you understand what you're getting into? The Association is a way of life, once you join-" Alberto said softly, ignoring the angry look on Lucas face, while watching Harry intently.

"I want to. Just give me my wand" Harry interrupted, and although the vocabulary used conveyed anger, his tone suggested nothing but kindness. It was unnerving.

"Ok, let's see what we've got then" Alberto said happily with a sigh, unsure that an eleven year old was capable of making such a decision.

Yet Harry was completely aware of what he was doing, despite his appearance he was in complete control. Everything was going right…

**xxxxxxx**

_Friday 13th November 1995 - 8:00 am_

Harry James Potter had never liked wearing the required clothes when attending a meeting with the Governor; he found suits to be itchy and uncomfortable, not to mention extremely distasteful. Yet still, he performed the ritual with apparent ease, displaying his professionalism effectively. He had been called to this meeting with no further knowledge other than that the Governor wanted to see him personally.

To Harry, this meant trouble…

"We have reason to believe that he has information on the Kiminari, a dangerous cult that we would prefer to be more of an extinct one. You'll go to a meeting and retrieve whatever information he has, and then dispose of him. He is too dangerous to kept alive. And Harry, I cannot impress on you enough the necessity to be covert. No one can see, hear, or even know you are there. I do not expect you to understand just yet, but in due time you will see why only you can perform what I ask"

"But…what about Siberia, Charlie confirmed that there were Fighting Arena's there, I thought I was going to-" Harry cut in, struggling to remain respectful towards his boss.

The man that sat opposite him was considered by some (though definitely not admitted) to be somewhat peculiar. For instance, the Governor would not tolerate being looked in the eye; instead, his subordinates would have to look elsewhere. Something Harry found undeniably difficult, especially when considering the large red dragon that would crawl around his body. It wasn't a real dragon of course, but a magical tattoo. Harry struggled to maintain his gaze elsewhere as the dragon's bulging yellow eyes flashed at him.

"You'll be leaving for Siberia tomorrow evening Mr. Potter but first things first, get the information, you have no idea what it's worth…" the Governor replied, and with a flick of his aged hand, the meeting was over.

**xxxxxxxxx**

_The Rising Sun Public House, Surrey_

_Friday 13th November 1995 - 9:00pm_

Harry Potter sat in the creepy looking bar, sipping at his incredibly bad tasting Pumpkin juice. His black polar neck jumper itched at his tanned skin, but, as intended, blended into the background well together with his black smart-looking trousers. Occasionally Harry would hear a recognizable voice, or catch someone's eye, and instinctively he would tighten his grip on his wand, held hidden under the table. The small din of the customers filled the air, along with smoke and the stench of alcohol. Soon the evening air outside began to darken, the atmosphere of the Pub in which he sat began to liven up, which was odd, considering the steadily dimming lights, causing Harry to feel extremely groggy. The warm crackle of the fire on the far end of the room could be heard, piercing the strangely odd silence that would occasionally smother the loud crowd's din of chitter-chatter and drunken fueled laughter.

Harry had been waiting for over an hour now, and Harry did not like to be kept waiting, and especially not in the same place. It wasn't safe. His employer was not someone who liked failure, and so he waited some more, his anger beginning to growl within him. Bored, Harry began to focus his attention on particular man that stood closest to the table. He gently began to delve into the man's mind, observing the flashing images and emotions that flashed across his brain, smiling at the less than savory thoughts that cropped up from the sidelines about the large breasted woman than was talking to him. He gently left the mans consciousness and bravely took another sip of his drink.

After another ten minutes Harry stood to leave. His contact was obviously not going to show, and he didn't fancy waiting any longer in that seat. Not because of the stench of drunkenness, the endless din of the locals, or the foul tasting beverage, but because, regrettably he was an impatient person, and perhaps more importantly he could not afford to be recognized, despite the fact that he had no resemblance to his former self. Thanks to desperate, painful training he was taught, yes, taught, to be a Transmorphamagus in Singapore, and so the Harry that sat in the busy little pub bore no resemblance to a fifteen year old boy, especially seeing as he himself had breasts, long blonde hair, and extremely painful, not to mention difficult to walk in, high heels clasped tightly around his ankle. As he was about to leave, his disappointment was somewhat quelled as his contact walked into the pub, and bee-lined straight for the table at which Harry sat. Without saying a word, or exchanging so much as a glance the man slid into the chair opposite Harry and called the waiter over with a click of his fingers.

"Butterbeer please. Large" he said, the slightly disgruntled waiter turned on his heel and left to fetch the beer with a rapid nod.

Harry sat back down at the table, took another sip of his drunk, more out of habit than desire, and smiled.

"How'd you know it was me?" he gleamed, his emerald-green eyes twinkling in the flickering light of the candle in the centre of the brown wooden table, while flicking a rather annoying strain of hair from his 'pretty' blonde hair..

The man across from him snorted slightly as the waiter plopped his beer down on the table, its contents seeping down the side of the warm ribbed glass. Harry's gaze followed the waiter back to the bar, his eyes faltering for a moment on the shiny black hair atop his contact's head that had obstructed his view.

Before the man could answer Harry laughed loudly as he leaned across the table.

"Are you wearing a wig?" he exclaimed, his gaze flicking back and forth between the mans thin face and the blatantly obvious, straw like toupe that was placed messily upon his ordinarily bald head.

The mans face flushed pink as the realization he was discovered hit him, along with the confusion as to which question to answer first, if at all. Looking around to check no one was listening he leaned in over the table, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"Would you keep your voice down!" he hissed, glaring at the boy, girl…whatever he was.

Harry rolled his eyes dramatically "Relax. I've warded…no one can hear us"

"Well…anyway, yes it is a wig-" he insisted, irritably, automatically casting a wary glance around him "-and I'm an Empath remember, I know you're signature-"

Harry opened his mouth to object, a frown lacing his pretty female features, but the bald man started again, holding a hand to interrupt him…her…it.

"- yes Harry even you can't shield your signature, at least, not from me anyway" he stated proudly, his eyebrows raised disapprovingly in Harry's direction.

Harry looked slightly put out at this, but quickly pushed it out his mind, he had more pressing matters to attend to. Quickly probing the minds of those nearest he checked for spies or anyone that may have, on the off chance, penetrated Harry's wards somehow.

"So, do you have them then, I don't have much time, seeing as your over an hour late" Harry said, his face no longer the relaxed casual one of someone sitting with a friend for a drink. His face was now serious, this was business, and, when it came to business, Harry had no time for side-tracking. He was a professional, he certainly hadn't got to where he was by goofing around, talking about toupes and drinking perhaps the most foul-tasting drink his lips had ever had the misfortune to come across.

The man could sense the impatience oozing from the young man and spoke quickly. How could a fifteen year old be so intimidating?

The man half-laughed inside. It was obvious how he could be intimidating. Any agent for the Association held power, especially this one. He didn't like to gossip, nor hear it, but there were rumors flying around about this young man, rumors that caused the sweat under his arms to double in both odor and amount.

"Yes I have them, here they're all there" he said, handing Harry a sealed brown envelope.

Harry took them without looking at his contact and opened them; meanwhile the man quickly rose from his seat. Harry ceased opening the envelope and looked straight at the uncomfortable man.

"And where d'you think your going?" he asked, his face a blank canvas, unreadable.

The man stopped and looked at the young boy, offering a meek smile along with a slight whimper, his red cheeks seeming to deepen to a crimson red. Before the man could speak Harry said firmly

"Sit down"

The man did so immediately, his eyes wide, while paying particular interest to a brown spot on the polished table. Harry resumed opening the envelope, pulling out the cluster of papers and photos shoved inside them. Carefully flicking through them he looked at the numerous people within the photos and skim read the several notes on all of them, including the several dead bodies and the markings carved into their flesh.

"My employer will be in contact with you shortly…" Harry smiled, standing from his seat and smoothing down his clothes.

With one last sip of his juice he placed the notes and photos in his brown bag, and turned to leave. Stopping short at the door he cast one final look back at his contact and with a rapid flick of his wand the mans head exploded, the remnants of his brain and skull spraying the horrified onlookers in a sea of lumpy dark red gunge, and with a wisp of black mist disappeared.

Leaving the pub in a state of screaming terror…

**xxxxxxxxx**

_Somewhere unkown to most men, Present Day_

""6, 12, 88, 94, 59, 3…6, 12, 88, 94, 59, 3…6, 12, 88, 94, 59, 3…"

The shallow mutterings of the thirty-something people crammed into the small, cave-like room bounced of the walls and echoed around the room menacingly, adding to the dangerous feeling produced by those men muttering the set of numbers over and over. All of them held their attention on one thing, a sea of glowing yellow eyes all focused on the circular pool of yellow liquid in the middle of the room. What was in this water could not yet be seen, and was surrounded by a sheet of thick glass that reflected the bright yellow light around the room. Around the glass were several small star shaped pockets, and below each one was a number. Each number was one of the one's chanted, going around the circular chamber in a clockwise motion.

The men surrounding the glass usually wore hoods to conceal their identity, however down here, there was no need. And so the thunderblolt tattoos were clear for all too see as their heads rocked back and forth with the chanting. Around their hands, bright yellow energy snapped and crackled.

"We are nearly there my disciples" one of the men said, walking circularly around the glass " It is just four days until we place the Pentagrams, and then, then we will be on our way" the last few words were drowned out by the cheers of all those listening, while some stood silently, the energy around their hands snapping loudly.

"We will raise our master and rule once again, and nothing, not even the Chosen One, can stop us!"

The man continued to rant in this fashion for some time, causing the room to erupt in cheers every now and again.

However there were two of the Kiminari not cheering, they were sat at the back of the small cave muttering between themselves.

"The attack wasn't successful?" one asked the other.

The man just shook his head, watching the display of the bellowing man by the Elder's Chamber.

"But we need the -" the man spurted again. He looked around to check no one was listening "We need the chosen one for the Awakening ritual, Kavkar won't-" he hissed into the air of his partner.

"We'll get him, he's not under the protection of the Association anymore, he's with the Order-" the other man interrupted, knowing full well that having a conversation such as this was blasphemy…


End file.
